


Paths That Lead Home

by HunterPeverell



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Bilbo, BAMF Frodo Baggins, Banishment, Bilbo Baggins Destroys the One Ring, Erebor, Gen, Mordor, Thorin Is an Idiot, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travelling Frodo Baggins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterPeverell/pseuds/HunterPeverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo has been banished from Erebor, and all he really wants is his pipe and his lovely Bag End. However, when a dark haired Hobbit appears before him and begins to tell a tale full of darkness and pain and suffering, Bilbo realizes his quest might have only just begun. Apparently, only Bilbo can save Middle Earth . . . he just has to learn to trust this Frodo Underhill.</p><p>
  <b>Apology and Explanation Inside!</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paths That Lead Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If you're new to this fic, welcome! If you're not and you're wondering what the hell is going on because didn't I take this fic down for a few months (*cough, cough* most of 2017)? Well, yes, and I'd like to explain myself really quickly.  
> *Inhale for stupidly long author's rant sorry sorry*  
> I basically had a mental breakdown for the first half of this year (still not fully "over it" tbh but I'm better.) Between doing way too many credit hours at collage and freaking out over my future, career, and ending childhood, I became incredibly insecure about a lot of things, but mostly my writing. From my style, my voice, and my overall storytelling ability, I became very critical of my fanfiction (in case you couldn't tell), because it's the most public writing I currently have and I am so, so sorry this story in particular was removed.  
> I know I don't post regularly and I don't have a very strong following, but I do appreciate the people who read, comment, and come back for more. I am hoping to get back into the flow. I will never be like those amazing fic writers, but I hope to continue improving and posting.  
> Thank you for reading this stupidly long comment and, once again, I'm really sorry for taking this down in the first place.  
> *end rant*  
> Enjoy the story!

Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit of the Shire and Bugler Exordinare, was banished from the grand (and ruined) Dwarven city of Erebor, and all he really wanted in that moment was his pipe.

He was too drained to really process his emotions when Thorin, crown perched atop his majestic, if slightly mussed, head, told the Hobbit he was banished. His words were grim, his face unyielding, and though Bilbo had expected to hear those words (though he wished he hadn't) there was little he could do in the face of the king's decree. The Gold Sickness still lingered in the Dwarf's mind, and in the face of the death and destruction of the battle, ended just minutes before, Bilbo did not think Thorin would have changed his mind so quickly. Though Bilbo had saved Thorin's life, he had been wearing his ring at the time, and so to Thorin ... Well, to Thorin it was as though Bilbo had betrayed him and disappeared from the battle. So, in the end, Bilbo had simply nodded and, without looking at those of the Company who were present (Dwalin and Nori, he believed, but he was a bit too dazed to really notice,) turned and left.

Luck-Wearer and Barrel-Rider he may be, but in that moment, the Riddle-Maker's words failed him. 

Now the Hobbit was wandering the ruins of Dale without a destination, staring listlessly at the ground and his dirty feet. He had no food, naught but the clothes on his back. In all the fuss and hubbub, he had no idea where that dratted wizard had gone. A bird called somewhere to his left and a silvery blue cloud briefly passed overhead, blocking the sun for a brief moment as the yellow orb sank towards the far horizon.

"Well, Bilbo, now you've done it," he sighed to himself, kicking as a small bit of stone. "Banished and friendless, look where all that adventuring has gotten you! You should have stayed at home with your books and your garden."

It was true enough, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He could not change the past.

He once more eyed the setting sun, uncertainty twisting his features up. With a glance around, he decided he was in for a cold, miserable night. The once-great city would provide sufficient protection from the wind, though it would do little for the chill that would surely set in. Durin's Day was, after all, wintertime. With a bit of exploration, he found a spot that seemed as good as any to bunk down in and rested his back against the wall, looking up at the sky from beneath a crumbled roof. He ignored his stomach when it rumbled, trying to think about anything other than food.

His mind, of course, landed on the topic of Dwarves. Bilbo did not know how the Company reacted to Thorin’s banishment of Bilbo, though he hoped that some—like Bofur, Bombur, Balin, Ori ... maybe even Fíli and Kíli and Dori—had stood up for him. He did save them several times on this confounded quest.

But in the end it didn’t really matter, did it? In the end, he was banished and his friends gone and the war over and the Shire waiting. Oh, how he longed to go home. Behind the lids of his eyes he could see the rolling green hills, the curving expanse of the Brandywine, the beautiful garden he, with the help of his faithful gardener, labored lovingly over for many a year until it was near bursting with flowers of every hue and strong plants that provided good food. Without his knowledge or bidding, his hands reached into his inner pocket and pulled out his pipe. He stuck it between his lips but, having no pipe weed, merely chewed lightly on the end. The Shire, oh how he missed it...

So lost in thought was he that he did not notice a figure approaching until they were standing right above him.

“Mister Bilbo Baggins?” the voice said. Bilbo blinked and looked at them with a question on his tongue. To his surprise—indeed, he was so shocked he could not fully process what he was seeing for quite a number of seconds—there was a Hobbit standing before him. Scrambling to his feet, Bilbo stuffed his pipe back into his pocket and for a moment the two Hobbits regarded each other curiously. Bilbo, though startled, did not feel fear just yet—it was not in his nature to fear other Hobbits.

The Hobbit standing before him had curly black hair that fell into his pale, wan face. His blue eyes were creased with a sort of weariness Bilbo could not even begin to understand; it was as though someone had reached into the Hobbit's chest and scooped something vital out, something the Hobbit would never be able to recover from. Bilbo found he could not look into the other's eyes for long and instead lowered his gaze to take in the rest of the Hobbit's attire. He was dressed quite finely for a Hobbit, which put his social status higher, but for the life of him Bilbo could not remember seeing this Hobbit before.

With a start, he realized he had not answered the Hobbit's question. “I—yes, that is my name,” Bilbo stammered, blinking. “At your service.” Bilbo gave a slight bow, and his pipe nearly fell out of his mouth. He pulled it from his lips and tucked it back in his pocket, feeling himself go quite red. “My apologies—I don’t mean to be rude, you see, but I do not remember seeing you in the Shire before, and it has only been a bare year since I last saw it. I was not aware anyone had left to go adventuring as I had. Who are you?”

“Frodo Ba—Underhill.” the Hobbit said. “I shall call myself that for now, for the tale I am about to tell you, Un—Mister Baggins—is quite extraordinary.”

“Is it?” Bilbo said, feeling tired all of a sudden. “And why should I wish to hear such a tale? I’ve heard quite enough about such things, and lived through a few of them myself.”

For some reason, this brought a small smile to Frodo's lips.

“This one concerns no Dwarves nor Elves,” Frodo said. “It concerns Hobbits.”

Bilbo looked at Frodo for a long moment before he slowly sat down again and sighed. “Very well, have a seat.” He waved his hand vaguely towards the ground around him.

Frodo seated himself opposite to Bilbo under the mostly intact roof and leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Bilbo's mind still raced, trying to figure out which family the lad—for Frodo couldn't be more than forty—could be from. He looked to have some Baggins in him, perhaps a trace of Took and Brandybuck, though Bilbo couldn't know for certain. Only, he had never heard of the name "Underhill" before. Of course, there was always another option, one Bilbo had never considered before.

He decided to pose the question to Frodo, to see if his strange thought had any baring.

“I had thought all of the Hobbits lived in the Shire.” Bilbo said delicately, not wishing to offend his strange companion in any way. “I had not realized—nor had anyone told me—that a colony of Hobbits lived so far East.”

“Oh, no.” Frodo said after a moment where he had blinked at Bilbo in bemusement. “No Hobbits out here, Mister Baggins. I am a traveler like yourself.”

Much relieved, Bilbo sat back more comfortably against the stone wall as he said, “Oh, drop the ‘Mister Baggins’ business.” At Frodo's questioning half-smile, Bilbo grinned and continued, “We’re out in the middle of nowhere in the destroyed remains of a city that was attacked by a dragon nigh on sixty years ago, and no one else around. I believe I can very well just be ‘Bilbo’ here.”

“Very well Bilbo,” Frodo said, and Bilbo thought he spied a true grin threatening to split his face. “If you insist, then I shall insist on Frodo.”

“Good,” Bilbo said tiredly.

“Pray tell, what happened?” Frodo said softly.

Bilbo sighed. “King Thorin of Erebor banished me. That dratted wizard who dragged me on the quest in the first place is nowhere to be found, and I now must face this journey to the Shire by myself—and I barely made it here in the _first place_ with thirteen Dwarves for company.”

Frodo frowned slightly. “I see,” he said in length. “I noticed the signs of a battle. King Thorin and his nephews survived?”

“Hm? Oh yes.” Bilbo furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“I am not sure what is going on,” Frodo admitted. “But I can at least make your life easier, even if it is not the life I was aiming for. Perhaps the Valar sent me here on purpose.”

“What on earth do you mean? What are you talking about?” Bilbo demanded.

What Frodo said next was the very last thing Bilbo had been expecting.

“My name is Frodo Baggins.” Frodo merely blinked at the gasp Bilbo wasn't quite able to smother. “I am your nephew—cousin, really, from many, many years in the future.”

“Nonsense,” Bilbo said quietly, staring at the other Hobbit. “You are—at the very least you are speaking of time travel, and ...”

“If you will allow me to continue,” said Frodo. Bilbo nodded hesitantly after a moment, readily admitting to himself that his curiosity was well and truly piqued. “You found a ring in the depths of the Misty Mountains, did you not?”

Bilbo’s hand went immediately to his pocket, and though he said nothing, a look of pain filled knowing crossed the other Hobbit’s face. “Yes,” Frodo said quietly. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

From his pocket Frodo withdrew a small packet, and Bilbo caught the whiff of Longbottom Leaf. Frodo smiled slightly once more and withdrew a pipe from his jacket pocket, obligingly filling Bilbo’s pipe along with his own. Together they inhaled and Bilbo felt much more inclined to listen to the self-proclaimed Frodo Baggins.

“I come from far in the future,” Frodo said. “I recently died, I believe, at the age of one hundred or so.”

“Long life,” Bilbo murmured.

Frodo shrugged. “You lived to over one hundred and twenty.”

Bilbo blinked before exclaiming, “My goodness! How?”

“The Ring,” Frodo said, the blue shadows of dusk playing across his delicate features. “The Ring is no ordinary Ring, Bilbo. It is the Dark Sorcerer Sauron’s. Even now it corrupts and brings ruin to its bearers. The creature Gollum that you took it from had it for five hundred years. It gifts unnatural long life to all who are of use to it in addition to invisibility.”

“Which ... if I were to believe you, mind ... which is why I live for so long?” Bilbo asked. Though Frodo spoke of something dark and terrible, which Bilbo had a very hard time connecting with his little golden ring, he was beginning to feel terrified. For though what Frodo was talking about—time travel, distant relations, long life, beings eviler that Bilbo could comprehend—some semblance of truth rang through the Hobbit’s words and struck a chord within Bilbo as Frodo’s tired, haunted eyes watched him in the growing darkness.

“This is not a conversation to have in the dark,” Frodo's voice came soft in the dark. Though he did not answer Bilbo, his silence was answer enough.

Together the Hobbits collected scraps of wood that the men and Elves had left behind and soon a bright fire crackling away, its cheerful dance feeling quite out of place with the conversation they were about to have.

“You say this ring is Sauron’s?” Bilbo asked once they had reseated. Frodo was watching the fire with hazy intensity.

“Put it in the fire,” Frodo said quietly.

“What?” Bilbo asked, alarmed.

“Do it,” Frodo said, nodding towards the flames. “Put it in the fire and then pull it out again. No harm shall come to it—our little fire is not hot enough to melt even normal gold.”

Which, Bilbo could concede, was true enough. With great hesitancy, Bilbo dropped his little ring in the fire and waited for a moment before pulling it across the stone floor with a stick.

“Pick it up,” Frodo said. “It’s quite cool.”

Bilbo held his hand over it, expecting to feel some heat radiating off of the surface, but it never came. He lowered his hand to touch the metal with the tip of his pinkie finger, and found it to be quite cool, just as Frodo had said.

Just as he picked it up and held it in his palm, writing etched itself across the band like fire, as though it was being written in that very moment.

“What—what is it?” Bilbo asked in fear.

“Proof,” Frodo replied. “That it is Sauron’s Ring you hold. It is Black Speech, which I cannot speak, nor would I if I could. In the Common Tongue it says ‘One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.”

Being neither a Bracegirlde from Hardbottle nor a Bolger from Budgeford, Bilbo's mind went somewhere dark and terrifying, a conclusion he so desperately wished he had not made. After all, for him, a Hobbit of the Shire just _happening_ to find the Ring, after many thousands of years it had gone unfound... “So he is ... You _can't_ mean to say that Sauron is returning.”

“Yes,” came the response. “The orcs you fought in the battle only exist right now because Sauron is gathering his strength. With the Ring, he will be able to take over Middle Earth and destroy all who oppose him. He was barely defeated last time.”

Bilbo had enjoyed history, but ancient tales of battles over golden things had never quite captured his interest. Now he wished he had studied them more closely.

“Then we give it to the Elves, or the Men of Lake-Town.” Bilbo said. “Or—or Gandalf! Gandalf will know what to do with the ring!”

“No!” Frodo cried, surging forwards into a crouched position, gazing at Bilbo with large, pleading eyes. Bilbo waited anxiously for Frodo to regain control of his breathing and settle back down.

When he did, Bilbo asked quietly, “Why ever not?”

“Men and Elves and Dwarves—even Wizards—want _things_ ,” Frodo explained. “They want money or power. They want to be Great, to be remembered throughout time. Even Gandalf is not immune to that desire. All this, the Ring can easily give to them, corrupting them in turn. Those races—the Men, the Dwarves, the Elves—they would fall to the Ring’s power and be enslaved. It is what happened to the Nine Men of old, and it may yet slowly happen to the Elves and Dwarves. But we Hobbits—Bilbo, we are want of nothing. We live peacefully, happily. We love things that grow, that are green and fresh and alive, and everything that gold and power and money are not. I carried the Ring.” As Frodo admitted this, his head bowed as though a great weight pressed into his skull. “I carried it for a year and more, and eventually I began to succumb. I could not destroy it, in the end. I could not let it go. It had to be forced from me.” And here he raised his hand, where, to Bilbo’s horror, he saw that one of the fingers was missing. The jagged ends and the flickering firelight made it appear to Bilbo as if it had been gnawed off.

“The Ring will gain power,” Frodo said as he lowered his hand and tucked it away under his thigh. “I fell to its power but you, Bilbo, you—you had it for sixty years and managed to _willingly_ give it up.”

“I did?” Bilbo asked, stunned.

“Yes, which is how it came to be in my possession.”

“What,” Bilbo cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to force the words out, “what would you have me do?”

Frodo closed his eyes for a bare second, relief chasing across his face like leaves on a windy day. “The Ring can only be destroyed in the fires it was forged from.” Frodo's eyes once more went distant and sad. “The Fires of Mount Doom in Mordor.”

Bilbo shuddered. “But I have just finished my quest,” he protested. “I have had the people I called friends turn their backs on me and cast me out when they were done with me. No help will come from the Elves, for Thranduil will not be so kind to the Hobbit who stole thirteen Dwarves away from him, and the Men of Lake-Town are rebuilding from Smaug’s destruction. I want to see the Shire, to sit in my smail and be surrounded by the comforts of home.”

“I know.” Frodo blinked quickly in the firelight. “I wanted that more than anything. But if we do not do this, Bilbo, than in sixty years the forces of Sauron will rise up and attempt to consume all of Middle Earth. His shadow will fall over us all, and his Eye will watch our every move. The world nearly fell when I began my quest, but now—here, where he is still weak and still building his armies—now is the perfect time, Bilbo. So I am going to ask you, as one creature that walks upon this good earth to another, will you do this? Will you save us? Will you save the children of the future? The countless lives that will be lost if this does not happen? There is more at stake here than reclaiming an ancient homeland from a dragon.”

Bilbo stared at Frodo, terrified to look at him and unable to look away, for his heart was screaming the truth of Frodo’s words at him while his mind was dissolving into a gibbering mess of horror.

There was no way, after all, Frodo could know what he does. There was no way the other Hobbit could have known about the fiery words etched into the Ring. There was no way his self-proclaimed future cousin could have known about such dark and terrible things...

“All this over a ring I found in a cave?” he choked out.

“Yes,” Frodo said gently. He seemed to understand what Bilbo was going through, and he should, shouldn’t he? After all, he must have been told the whole dark tale by someone, who must have convinced him to carry the Ring so far from the peaceful Shire.

“Very well,” Bilbo said, clearing his throat. “I shall—I shall do this.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said, relief on his face. “You have always been stronger than I, uncle. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Bilbo said automatically and then winced. “Well,” he said after a pause. “Think quite a bit of it. This is suicide. I may be from the Shire, but even I have heard the stories of Mordor.”

“Oh, I remember.” Frodo said. “Never did I think I would step foot in that horrid place, and yet I did.”

Bilbo grinned, a touch sardonically, before it slid off his face. “Ah,” he said, “that dreadful Lobelia Sackville-Baggins will have taken the house by now.”

Frodo suddenly grinned, bright and open and without the weight that had rested upon it. Bilbo was momentarily stunned.

“Oh, I took care of things.” Frodo said. “Your Will—your _real_ Will, not the one the Sackville-Bagginses made—has surfaced and is in the hands of the Thain, the Gamgees, and several of your trusted relatives. I may have edited a few minor parts—such as to wait for five years until giving the house away, and to not let the Sackville-Bagginses get their hands on it in any way.”

“Oh thank goodness.” Bilbo slumped against the wall. “That is a load off my mind. You were in the Shire recently?”

“Yes.” Frodo said. “I asked to be dropped off there when I was sent back. I put your affairs in order, and then rode East as fast as possible; I caught a ride from one of the giant Eagles who were quite willing to help me after I spoke to them. I have been in this time for some three months,” he added upon seeing Bilbo’s questioning gaze.

“Very well.” Bilbo said. “Then, if I live, I shall return to my home." A thought struck him. "If you stay that long, you are welcome to join me.”

“We shall see,” Frodo said slowly. “I have many old friends I wish to see again, and many of whom are not yet born.”

“Then let us make plans at the end of this quest, should we live long enough to see it,” Bilbo said, feeling tired, but ready to move on from the shadowy ruins. “Now, I have no idea how to make our way to Mordor.”

“You are in luck,” Frodo said dryly. “For I have been that way.”

“Ah, a guide, excellent,” Bilbo said, attempting to muster up some emotion other than dread and failing quite badly. “Are we taking anyone else with us?”

Frodo shook his head. “I know the way, and last time it was only myself and my friend who made it through Mordor. We had companions, a Fellowship, but we became separated. I believe the two of us will be enough.”

“I hope you are right,” Bilbo said as he boggled at the thought of two Hobbits against Mordor. “For if we are attacked and cannot defend ourselves, the Ring would be lost.”

“Of that I am aware,” Frodo said. “But I have hopes that our quest will be successful; as I said, with the battle that happened less than a week ago, Sauron’s forces have been diminished, and the Sorcerer himself is residing in the Mirkwood Forest, where he will have gathered most of his forces to protect him now that he knows the White Council knows he is there.”

“But since the White Council knows it, won’t he leave?” Bilbo asked.

Frodo shook his head. “Not for some time, and most likely not to Mordor. He is very weak right now. Mordor is far, far away, and the recently incurring battle left him greatly weakened. He could not risk moving such a distance without fear of attack. If he did, the Elves would decimate his armies, and his plans would be delayed for several more centuries. Though Dol Guldur itself is near the South in Mirkwood, Sauron would have to combat the Elves of Lorien, the Riders of Rohan, and the warriors of Gondor. It is a risk he cannot afford to make in his weakened state.”

“Will not the Elves and Men ride to meet him?” Bilbo asked. “Will they not cut him down while he is weak?”

“The race of Men is scattered and chaotic. We cannot rely on them for help. The Elves may do so, but the Elves of Lorien are not as strong as the Mirkwood Elves or the Rivendell Elves. They are fewer in number, and even the Lady Galadriel has not the means to gather an army as such quick notice. They were blindsided by his return, unsuspecting. She had sixty years to prepare in my future, and her plans have only just begun now. She will not risk to lives of her kin when they are no stronger than Sauron himself.”

“It is a pity,” Bilbo said.

Frodo shook his head. “Not even the Lady Galadriel would be able to kill Sauron, and if what Gandalf told me was true, she was much weakened in her battle with him.”

“She _fought_ him?” Bilbo asked, looking at the other Hobbit in surprise. “And _won?_ ”

“At the cost of much of her strength,” Frodo said. “She is stronger than most Elves, for she is a Ring bearer.”

“There are more Rings?” Bilbo asked. “I have not heard of this.”

_“Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,”_ Frodo recited,

_“Seven for the Dwarf-lords in halls of stone,_

_“Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die,_

_“One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_

_“In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._

_“One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_

_“One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them._

_“In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.”_

“That is terrifying,” Bilbo said frankly once Frodo completed his poem. “So she bears a Ring?”

“It is not nearly as powerful as the One,” Frodo said. “But it is close. And she herself is ancient and powerful through means she made by herself. I would not cross her, not in all my lives or all of eternity.”

“Nor would I,” Bilbo said, falling into a silence he reserved for Deep Thoughts. Frodo must be used to that silence, for he did not pester Bilbo until Bilbo posed his next question some minutes later. Frodo stared into the fire with the same intensity as Bilbo did.

Bilbo's mind was a whirl of chaos. Though he yearned for the green hills of the Shire, for Frodo to say it was all a joke, though a poor one, he knew what Frodo said was true. The though caused an ache in his heart, but he found his mind made—he would go on this Quest, for the future of Middle Earth.

“What happens when I throw the Ring into the fires?” Bilbo asked when he withdrew from his thoughts.

“Sauron will be destroyed,” Frodo said calmly. The silence had allowed him to collect his thoughts, and when Frodo met Bilbo's eyes, they were calm and measured. “I have seen it.”

Bilbo nodded slowly. “We leave in the morning?” At Frodo's nod, he asked, “Have you supplies?”

“I do,” Frodo confirmed. “I left the ponies in a shelter not far from here. They are quite safe. They have enough supplies to last us most of the journey. I have some Elven bread which will serve as our food through Mordor. The ponies we will not take during that portion of the trip, for they will surely die. We shall set them free near the edge of Gondor if they live that long to see it.”

Bilbo dared not allow his thoughts to stray towards the question, _Why wouldn't they live that long?_

“And after Mordor?” Bilbo asked. “If we are successful?”

“We may stop by Gondor,” Frodo said. “But I will want us to keep to the shadows. I do not know about you, but I would like the other races to keep underestimating Hobbits, and for two Hobbits to be spotted in Gondor not long after Mount Doom erupts will cast their eyes on the Shire.”

“I would not want that,” Bilbo agreed.

“Nor I,” Frodo said. “But stop and re-gather our supplies in Gondor must happen, and we shall be discrete about it. Hopefully we will be able to follow those mountains to Dunland, where we shall make our way back to the Shire.”

“It sounds as though you have planned this out,” Bilbo said, blinking.

“I have.” Frodo said. “I spent three months doing so. Now, we must sleep and gather our strength before we begin.”

“Very good,” Bilbo said, suddenly overcome once more by a wave of exhaustion. Without pomp and circumstance, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, keeper of the One Ring of the Dark Lord Sauron, rolled into a sleeping position and was soon fast asleep.

*

Frodo watched his uncle, so achingly young, looking as he had when he came to pick Frodo up to bring him to Bag End, with a feeling of deep, complete sadness.

He would do his utmost to ensure his uncle did not become like himself.

With that thought, Frodo joined his uncle in sleep.

*

In the morning Frodo and Bilbo settled upon their mounts and made their way South. Though it took a few hours for them to warm to each other, soon enough the two Hobbits were chatting with one another easily, trading stories of the Shire—Bilbo had heard none of Frodo’s of course, and Frodo had heard very little of Bilbo’s childhood and tweenhood, for apparently the older Bilbo preferred tales of his adventures. (Bilbo could not find it in himself to fault his older self for that, because these adventures were quite a bit of work and he must surely earn the right to talk about it when he returns.)

They had not drawn far enough away from Erebor for the landscape to change too drastically, and Bilbo entertained himself during the few hours of silence that fell upon himself and his companion when the conversation lulled into silence by sight-seeing. The trees were much different from those found around the Shire. They were more reminiscent of the trees from the Old Forest—dark and grown close together. There was a distinctly unfriendly air about the trees of Mirkwood, and Bilbo was quite content with Frodo's path, which skirted the trees and did not dart inside the tree line.

The wildlife was more bountiful the farther they drew from the mountain. All sort of small furry creatures darted through the dark green underbrush and birds flittered from branch to branch, their songs pleasant (and most welcome) background noise.

“What become of the other Ring bearers?” Bilbo asked one day, three days after they set out. He recalled the poem easily, having a ear for those sorts of things. “The Elves and Dwarves and Men?”

They had stopped for the day, refilling their water skins in a clear creek that ran just inside the boundaries of Mirkwood. Their ponies, lashed to the daring few saplings outside the tree line, nickered to one another softly. Bilbo finished filling his water skins and used some of the water to rinse off the grime from his face.

“I know not of the Elves beyond Galadriel,” Frodo said as he too tucked his water away and refreshed himself to the best of his ability. What Bilbo wouldn't give for plumbing! He felt another pang of homesickness for his beloved Bag End. Frodo continued, as he used a stained kerchief to wipe the water from his eyes, “The seven Dwarf lords, however, rule the seven Dwarf kingdoms—the line of Durin is one such kingdom.”

“Thorin is descended from one of the Dwarf lords?” Bilbo asked, startled.

“Yes, if he is from the line of Durin, as you have said in your book,” Frodo replied. “You spoke little of him and his nephews. The Men had held Rings are now slaves to his will. My friends and I were constantly plagued by them. I first heard of them as Black Riders, but they are also called Nazgul, or Ringwraiths. They are immortal and bound to the Ring. They have not yet awoken in this time, or if they have, they have not gathered together and know not who we are, for which we should be grateful. No one suspects the One Ring has been found, and no one will expect two Hobbits, of all things, to be setting out to destroy it. That surprise will be our advantage.”

Bilbo couldn't fault this logic—after all, hadn't it just been a year ago Thorin looked down at him in disbelief and commented that he looked like a grocer?

 _And look at me now,_ he thought, slightly hysterically, _I'm on my way to_ Mordor _of all places to destroy an ancient evil!_

Gandalf probably hadn't seen _that_ coming when he brought Bilbo along on the Quest.

Bringing himself out of his musings as he and Frodo made their way back to the ponies, he asked another question, “Did Sauron suspect you were going to destroy the Ring?”

Frodo shook his head. “Not until I was at his doorstep.” He tucked his water skins back in his saddle bag and swung himself back up onto the pony's back. “It was the only reason I got as far as I had.”

“So I suppose we are lucky.” Bilbo mused as he, too, settled once more on his saddle.

Frodo shot him a wan smile. “Indeed.”

*

hey traveled for many weeks, and Bilbo watched as the Lonely Mountain became but a smudge on the horizon. He felt a distant, aching pain in his chest for the thought of his friends, but he ignored it in favor of focusing on Frodo. Frodo looked to be no younger than him, though he assured Bilbo that before he had awoken in the Shire he had been white haired and wrinkled.

“The Valar sent me back to the body I had gained during the quest,” Frodo explained to him one day. The woods remained to their right as they continued South, and they both had a hand on their swords in case of trouble. “Rough, lean, and able to endure the harsh wilderness, for which I am quite glad; I would not be able to make this journey, nor would you, had we just popped out of the Shire.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Bilbo chuckled, resting quite contently on his pony, which he had affectionately named Alice. Frodo’s mount had been named Boromir, and one day Frodo told Bilbo the story of his mount’s namesake.

Bilbo shook his head by the end of the tale. “It’s a pity,” he said. “And I am sorry; he seemed like a good man.”

“I had to get the story of his death from Merry and Pippin and Aragorn,” Frodo admitted. “I had left by then with Sam to go to Mordor.”

“It’s a fitting end,” Bilbo said, trying to comfort his fellow Hobbit, though he was not sure how to. “A great warrior to the last breath.”

“He has not yet been born.” Frodo gazed off into the distance, the sky a downy grey color. “I hope to meet him again, one day, may the Valar permit it.”

“Which I hope they do,” Bilbo said. “You are not only taking it upon yourself to make this journey not once, but twice. I can think of no greater reward than for you to be reunited with the friends who stood beside you.”

It began to drizzle, and with great irritableness, both Hobbits put their hoods up and huddled closer to the necks of their ponies.

“What became of your companions, if you don’t mind my asking?” Bilbo asked curiously.

Frodo’s lips twitched in sad amusement. “One died, cut down by Orcs as I just told you,” he said. “He had been falling to the sway of the Ring before that, and that was when the Fellowship ended and I left. I cast no blame upon him. The second was crowned King of Gondor. The third and fourth, Legolas of the Woodland Realm and Gimli son of Gloin, became good friends and fought many a battle until they finally came to the Undying Lands. My Hobbit companions lived through the war, and returned to the Shire. I ... do not know how their stories ended.” Bilbo could not see Frodo’s face beneath his hood, but he rather suspected Frodo was lying, at least in part. He let it go for the moment, pursuing another line of questioning that had been bothering him.

“And you?” Bilbo asked. “Did you live your days out in the Shire?”

“No,” Frodo said, and though Bilbo pushed him he would not say where he had gone.

“Are any of your companions with you?” Bilbo finally asked. “Did they come back in time?” Frodo turned slightly, peering out at Bilbo underneath his hood.

“I do not know,” Frodo admitted. “But I think not. I think they all lived their lives until the end and are happy for it. No, I am here alone.” His head bowed slightly as he looked not at Bilbo.

“I am here,” Bilbo said. “And though I do not share the memories of your Bilbo, I am still family, I would say.”

“You believe me?” Frodo asked, raising his head. “It is all rather fantastical. I did not think . . . well, I thought the Ring part was believable, but not the time travel.”

“It is insane,” Bilbo said. “Completely and utterly mad. I must be a loon to even consider going with you, and yet ... And yet I cannot think of it as anything but the truth. My mind says it is nonsense, but I have not listened to my head for nearly over a year. It is my heart that says you speak the truth, and I can’t find fault with its reasoning, unknown to me as it may be.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said, and Bilbo could hear the smile in his words and tone, and so for a time the two Hobbits rode in contented silence, each thinking their own thoughts that always, eventually, turned to the green hilled Shire and the longing for _home_.

*

The beginning part of their journey had been so peaceful; it was almost a relief to be attacked.

It began when they had made camp. Bilbo tended to the little fire that was cooking a stew for them both. Alice and Boromir were tethered to a tree, and Frodo was looking for more fuel so they might keep the fire going throughout the night.

The first they heard was a shriek in the night. Bilbo looked wildly about, blinking against the smoke. The ponies were shifting nervously about, snorting in the gloom. Frodo came back, his sword—which Bilbo had learned was his very own Sting, passed down upon his departure—clamped in his hand.

“Goblins,” Frodo whispered harshly. “Put the fire out!”

Bilbo was quick to throw dirt on the little fire, and so they relied on the pale stars, the thin moon, and the dying sunlight for their light.

“Did you see them? Did they see you?” Bilbo demanded.

“Neither,” Frodo said. “But they are headed in this direction. If we are quiet, and have enough luck, they mightn’t notice us.”

“How good is our luck?” Bilbo asked softly.

“Not that good,” Frodo muttered as he gazed into the dark, and indeed, in that very moment several Goblins burst out of the trees and ran at Frodo, who lifted Sting to meet them.

Bilbo was blinded by the blue glow, and he didn’t seem to be the only one. The Goblins became confused quite quickly, used to the dim of dusk. The blue bobbed and wove as Frodo took down Goblin after Goblin. None came after Bilbo and the ponies during the initial attack, so distracted—and unorganized—they were. Bilbo counted only seven. They must have been left over from the battle and could not find their way back to whatever foul place they had slithered from.

One Goblin did spot Bilbo near the ponies and charged. Bilbo lifted his own Sting to meet him and the blades clashed in the quiet night, joining the clamor from Frodo and his opponents. In the background, the ponies whinnied in alarm and fright, pulling at the trees as they attempted to bolt.

Bilbo ducked as the Goblin swung again, and the blade lodged in the tree. Bilbo brought the butt of his sword down on the Goblin’s head, which was un-helmed, and with a pained whimper it slumped forwards slightly. Pressing his advantage, Bilbo shoved Sting into a gap between his armor and, with a dull thud, the creature fell into death.

“We should move our camp,” Frodo said. “Quickly.”

“Agreed.” Bilbo said and working together the two Hobbits packed everything up and led Alice and Boromir by the reins further down, still staying close to the tree line. Bilbo held the cooking pot with their supper in one hand, making sure nothing spilled.

They ate well that night and slept even better.

*

Several weeks passed since the Battle for the Lonely Mountain, and Thorin sat upon his throne listening to several Dwarves reporting on how their kin were settling in and how the restorative process was doing. The reports were long, as Dwarves discovered more corpses of their fallen kin and more rooms that had been destroyed and must be excavated.

Slowly he had been returning to his right mind, helped by the Company. Thorin was quite ashamed for what he had done when Balin had taken him aside a bare day back, when he had mostly returned to his right state of mind, to tell him what had become of their burglar. Thorin had turned pale under the gazes of the twelve members of the Company, and he had asked softly if the burglar had been harmed. Balin shook his head but told him that Bilbo had been gone for some time now.

“Did Gandalf return with him?” Thorin had demanded. "To the Shire? Is Bilbo safe?"

“I would assume so,” Balin said. “As he has not been sighted since Bilbo’s departure. He told me it had been his plan to accompany him home.”

“Good.” Thorin murmured, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “I shall lift the banishment immediately. Right now, it is our job to make sure Erebor is habitable, but once that is done I shall see if we can make the journey to the Shire to apologize.”

“Truly?” Kíli demanded with tentative hope a bur in his voice.

Thorin grimaced, but nodded. “I have wronged the Hobbit, who was only trying to help,” he rumbled. “It is the least I can do in the face of that atrocity. Since Bilbo was vital in the reclaiming of our homeland it should not be hard to convince our kin that the journey is of importance.”

The Company nodded along with his words and smiles of relief were shared. Silently they filed out of the room, talking quietly to each other and leaving the King Under the Mountain alone in the grand, airy room. Thorin closed his eyes again, this time in shame for the way that he had acted towards both his kin and towards the Hobbit.

Thorin would make it up to Bilbo Baggins if it was the last thing he did.

*

“The end of Mirkwood!” Frodo cried out, pointing for Bilbo. “The beginning of the Brown Lands.” He added.

“Are the Brown Lands good or bad?” Bilbo wondered, patting Alice’s neck absentmindedly.

“They get steadily worse.” Frodo said, some of his exuberance fading. “We shall have to leave the ponies soon. We will make our way west to the Great River and then head down. It will take us near Rohan lands, but we should peel off around Argonath and make our way through Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes.”

“That does not sound pleasant.” Bilbo muttered.

Frodo shook his head. “It shouldn’t; the Dead Marshes are a horrid place to be. However, I know the safe way through them and they are the only way I have been through to Mordor.”

“How did you get back out?” Bilbo asked.

“The Great Eagles flew Sam and I out.” Frodo said. “And though they said they would fly us out again, they will not fly us in, not when Sauron is still living and his forces gather still.”

“A pity.” Bilbo said. “It would save us much time.”

“True,” Frodo said. “But understandable.”

“It is.” Bilbo agreed, spurring Alice into a slow trot. Frodo encouraged Boromir into that same pace.

“I have never asked.” Frodo said, “But what _exactly_ happened at the Battle of the Five Armies?”

“It was a battle.” Bilbo said. “I spent a large portion of it in the ruins of Dale. What of it?”

“Uncle Bilbo always told it differently.” Frodo said. “I am not sure what has happened, but from what Uncle Bilbo said Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli died.”

“What? No!” Bilbo yelped violently, startling poor Alice. He patted her neck gently while staring at Frodo in horror. “That never happened!” He carried on, lowering his voice to spare Alice. “Thorin was injured, as was Fíli and Kíli, but none of them _died_.”

“It is interesting.” Frodo mused. “For from what I recall Thorin died fighting the White Orc just after the White Orc slew Fíli. Kíli died defending the She-Elf Tauriel.”

Bilbo looked at Frodo in shock. “I . . . I do not know what you are meaning.” He finally said. “Last I knew Thorin and his nephews were alive and well, though Thorin suffered still from Gold Sickness that caused him to banish me in the first place.”

“I slew an Orc pack on my way to Erebor a little over a week before the battle.” Frodo said. 

“You slew an _Orc pack?_ ” Bilbo demanded hoarsely. “ _How?_ ”

“I did not spend the rest of my life doing nothing; I know how to fight and how to use surprise, stealth, and my size to my advantage.” Frodo smirked. “The Orc pack was large, standing at about thirty or so, but I maneuvered them into a ravine where I had rigged an avalanche of rocks. Those that survived did not survive my blade. Perhaps those thirty made a difference.”

“Perhaps.” Bilbo said. “But I honestly could not say. To my knowledge the line of Durin lives on.”

“And I shall trust your knowledge, for it has not failed me yet.” Frodo agreed. “I am quite glad that they are alive.”

“Still, it seems rather improbable that just killing thirty or so Orcs could make such a difference.” Bilbo said.

“I’m aware,” Frodo said. “As I said, it is just a theory. Perhaps one of those Orcs made the difference in the battle, cornering one of the nephews or something.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Bilbo admitted. “Perhaps those who sent you back made it so.”

“Perhaps,” Frodo concurred. “But it is no use theorizing when we do not have access to all the facts. Uncle Bilbo was never really forthcoming about the facts, and for you it never happened. We may never know truly how they lived in this timeline and not in the other. Never mind; they are alive, and someday I would like to meet them.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d love to meet _you_.” Bilbo said, amused. “Meeting a Hobbit who knows how to fight and actively _looks_ for adventure? And not just any adventure, but an adventure to the most dangerous place on this earth. You have far more to offer those blasted Dwarves than I ever could.”

“I would never have gotten them to Erebor,” Frodo said. “For what wit and cleverness I have came from your teachings. I doubt I could have out-riddled Gollum or stayed alive long enough to find the Arkenstone while entertaining a live, fire-breathing dragon. I am not entirely sure I would have thought to delay the Trolls long enough for them to turn to stone. Do not doubt yourself, uncle. You got them to Erebor. You saved them from imprisonment, death, and insanity. They owe you far more than you owe them.”

“I had not realized,” Bilbo said when a minute had passed, “just how much I _had_ done. Tell me, Frodo, did I tell you all about my adventures?”

“Most of it,” Frodo said. “When you retired to Rivendale you wrote me a book explaining everything in full detail. I read it after my quest.”

“Well, I’m glad you survived the first time ‘round.” Bilbo said. “Let us go for attempt two.”

“Let’s,” Frodo agreed.

The edge of Mirkwood produced no adversaries for them to fight. Frodo theorized that the ruckus up North in Erebor was what caused it; everything wanted to see the outcome.

“But is not Dol Guldur close?” Bilbo asked, glancing nervously at the trees.

“It is a long while from here.” Frodo said. “I have been veering us away from it. Today we’re riding away from Mirkwood and heading south towards the Anduin. Nothing should attack us from the trees, and if they do I will protect you.”

“I don’t . . .” Bilbo trailed off at the look Frodo gave him.

“You are the Ring bearer.” Frodo said. “My Company did the same for me. My life is less important than yours, Bilbo. I could not carry the Ring a second time and resist its pull.”

“How have you resisted its so for so long?” Bilbo asked. “It has been weeks. You have been at my side all this time; it is truly remarkable.”

“The Valar.” Frodo said. “I am not immune to its effects, but I can resist them much better now. And leave the fighting to me, Bilbo. Please.”

“As long as we’re not fighting giant spiders I’ll be fine.” Bilbo had said.

“There’s one living near Mordor.” Frodo said. “Gollum tried to feed me to it.”

“How did you escape?” Bilbo asked, alarmed.

“I nearly didn’t.” Frodo admitted. “The Ring had nearly taken over by that point in time and I left Sam behind. He followed and rescued me, cutting into the spider with his sword and . . . well, he rescued me.”

“How very lucky,” Bilbo said.

“Hardly,” Frodo said dryly. “I was then captured by Orcs. They nearly got the Ring. Sam then came and saved me from _that_.”

“Well, let’s try to avoid that.” Bilbo said. “Mordor was over run in Orcs and Goblins by that point, correct?”

“It shouldn’t be now.” Frodo said. “All the same, let’s not go into the Spider’s lair.”

“Agreed,” Bilbo said fervently.

*

“Are we nearly ready?” Thorin asked. It was three weeks after the Company had agreed to go to the Shire, and Thorin could see they were all eager. He was bent over his desk, signing some paper or another while his old friend stood before him.

“Aye,” Dwalin said. “Balin, Dori and Bombur are staying behind. I could not convince anyone else to stay. Lady Dis and Balin are to be in charge. We are ready.”

“As am I,” Thorin said and clapped Dwalin on the shoulder. “We head out at first light.”

*

“What happened to my—the—Company, do you know?” Bilbo asked one day when they were huddled under their cloaks against the bitter winds that rolled off the plains.

Frodo settled slight, browed creased as he thought. “As you know, Thorin and his heirs died.” Frodo said. “I know very little of what happened to the others later in life. I know that all remained in Erebor, but many felt restless under Dain’s rule. I believe you told me that some returned to the Blue Mountains and, indeed, there was a time when I was visiting—for my parents still lived—when visitors appeared and you hurried me to the Gamgees while you entertained them. I was quite young, however I remembered one of them had a funny hat and the other was quite round.”

“Bofur and Bombur,” Bilbo said. “Visiting?”

“Returning to the Blue Mountains, I believe.” Frodo said. “Of that, I know the fate of only three others.”

Bilbo did not like the tone which Frodo spoke in, and he waited on baited breath.

“I believe you know of Moria,” Frodo said, and Bilbo nodded. He could not forget the hair-raising tale which Balin had told him and Fíli and Kíli that night shortly after their adventure had begun. It had fascinated and horrified him at the time, and even now Balin’s soft voice echoed in his head, whispering of the horrors of the ancient city.

“Balin, Ori and Oin went to reclaim it.” Frodo said. Bilbo could not speak, could not tell Frodo to stop, for he was about to hear how his friends _died_ , for surely they died. Moria was certain death. “I know not what happened to Oin, but I saw Balin’s tomb and Ori’s corpse.”

“No,” Bilbo choked out. “No, this cannot be.”

“I am sorry.” Frodo said. “Truly. I never met them, but I am sure they were warriors akin to the tales of old.”

“Yes they were,” Bilbo said. “What—what were _you_ doing in Moria?”

“Trying to get through the Misty Mountains,” Frodo said. “Saruman had blocked off every other pathway.”

And here Frodo described his journey through Moria, from the lake monster to the Balrog and Gandalf’s apparent end. He spoke of the great halls, of the wonders that remained. He spoke of the homeland with a detached admiration of a wearied, hounded traveler who could still see the beauty in something so old.

When he spoke of the cave troll, Bilbo asked, aghast, how he could have survived such a spearing. With a faint smile Frodo told him of the coat of Mithril, and how Thorin had gifted it to him. Bilbo’s had crept to his collar, where beneath his shirt rested the very same coat. Frodo’s quick eyes followed the movement, and there was a moment of silent understanding.

*

“You took a Took and a Brandybuck on an adventure with you,” Bilbo said, jaw agape. “Of course they were going to cause trouble!”

“Trouble, yes. Waking all the Orcs and Goblins and Balrogs in Moria? No, I’m afraid to say that I did not suspect _that_.” Frodo shook his head while Bilbo roared with laughter. “So we were running through the halls as fast as possible, and Pippin was muttering to Merry the whole way about wishing he was back in the Shire or wanting a large mug of beer—he said, if you can believe this, that since they were confronted by such foul things he would really just prefer the beer and be done with it all!”

Bilbo could not stop the next burst of laughter when it poured forth from him, and he and Frodo felt their spirits lift.

*

“You know,” Frodo said. “There are people who will never be who they could be.”

“What?” Bilbo asked as he bent over the cooking pot. Frodo was leaning against a tree lazily smoking his pipe.

“There are people who will never be what they could be.” Frodo repeated. “My younger self will never carry this burden you carry. Samwise, Merry and Pippin will live out their days as oblivious Hobbits. Aragorn will never realize what a great king he could be. Legolas and Gimli will never become friends against all odd of their races. It did not occur to me until just now what I am losing what—what other people are losing. I’m giving up a future they can no longer have that will make them great.”

“The people your friends will become.” Bilbo said softly.

“Indeed.” Frodo said. “They will never become the great warriors of old who people will sing of until the end of Time. Everything we have done as friends, comrades in arms . . . it will never have existed. We will be forgotten as nothing more than people who might have once lived.”

“I am sorry.” Bilbo said. “If you wish it, we could stop this and return to the Shire.” But in their heart of hearts, both Frodo and Bilbo knew that they could not.

“For,” Frodo mused, “a lot of evil came from it too. I know we would succeed should we leave it off, since I have not changed enough to change _that_ , but still . . .”

“There was a lot of death and destruction.” Bilbo said. “And the weight of losing all those people when we could have save them is not something I wish to live with.”

“Nor I,” Frodo said quietly.

“But you are here.” Bilbo said. “And you can make a difference. I know not how to help Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli—that is something you must do yourself, though I will try to help, if I can. But Merry and Pippin and Sam . . . take them on an adventure. Take your younger self. Let them explore. Take them to Rohan and Gondor, to Mirkwood and Erebor. Push them out the door and into the Wild. Give them adventure, Frodo. You being here does not mean that they will continue being ordinary Hobbits. Though they will not be the ones you left behind, they will be new, and will leave their mark on the races of Men and Elves and Dwarves.”

“Even after all this time,” Frodo mused, wonder in his voice. “You still surprise me, uncle.”

Bilbo smiled softly. “Well,” He said. “Just because we are changing time and Fate does not mean we are changing destiny. Destiny has a way of setting us all up to be the people we were meant to be. Perhaps Aragorn will discover his strength through other means. Perhaps you will send Legolas and Gimli on a quest in which they will become the great friends who cross all those who say no to them. And those three young Hobbits will become more than themselves. Destiny has a way of getting its way, m’boy.”

“It does indeed.” Frodo said, resting his head against the bark and looking up at the stars. “It does indeed.” He repeated softly, to himself Bilbo understood, and he left the boy to his thoughts, concentrating on their dinner.

*

They had set their ponies loose a bare few days before, waving goodbye sadly as Alice and Boromir trotted away. Frodo and Bilbo had watched them go; hands aloft to block the sun from their eyes, until their faithful ponies rounded an outcropping of rock and disappeared from their view. As one, Frodo and Bilbo turned and headed along the Anduin past Rohan lands. Bilbo tried not to feel as though the farewell to their steeds was the last goodbye he would say to any living thing beyond Frodo.

*

“We’ve been wandering for hours.” Bilbo complained, stumbling over a jutting rock and wincing as he felt it slice into the top of his foot.

“I know,” Frodo said apologetically. “And I’m sorry.”

“How much further is it?” Bilbo asked.

Frodo shook his head. “Emyn Muil is a maze.” He said. “Sam and I were lost for days until Gollum found us.”

“So how do you know where you’re going?” Bilbo demanded, “It sounds as if you don’t know how to get out of this accursed maze.”

“I am looking for landmarks.” Frodo said. “I took note of some when Gollum took us through the first time.”

“And you remember them,” Bilbo said, unimpressed. “I thought you died a good long while after your own quest.”

Frodo hummed slightly. “A trip to Mordor isn’t something you forget easily.”

“I suppose not.” Bilbo said. “But still, where—”

“Ah!” Frodo cried.

“What? What is it?”

“This is where Gollum found us,” Frodo said excitedly. “And here is where we lay that night; I do believe I know the way.”

“Excellent.” Bilbo said.

“We should continue tomorrow.” Frodo said. “We will make camp here.”

“Very good.” Bilbo said, and the two Hobbits set to work silently.

After the sun had set, its red rays casting bloody shadows on the rocks, Bilbo and Frodo settled down on their sleeping pads. Bilbo crooked one arm under his head and looked up at the distant stars.

“Do you miss them?”

“Miss who?” Frodo said to Bilbo’s left. Bilbo rolled his head towards his future nephew-cousin.

“Your friends,” Bilbo said. “Perhaps not Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli as much, though doubtless you miss them. No, the Hobbits you were with—Merry and Pippin and Sam. They seemed to have been your friends for a very long time before this adventuring nonsense ever came up. Do you miss them? Do you miss the Shire?”

“I do,” Frodo said. “Yavanna I miss Merry, Pippin and dear old Samwise Gamgee. I shan’t ever be rid of that . . . _longing_ for them. They were my dearest friends who went through so much.”

“You left them behind.” Bilbo said, not asking.

“I did,” Frodo agreed, “for though I loved the Shire, I could not face it after all that I had seen. But my friends . . . they were still—in love with the Shire, I suppose, and though I could not remain there they did. That is where they belonged.”

“Did you ever see them again?” Bilbo asked.

“I saw Sam.” Frodo admitted, “Though I had changed so much I am not sure I was the Hobbit he was looking for.”

Bilbo remained silent, as did Frodo. Before Bilbo drifted off into sleep, he heard Frodo sigh into the wind;

_“Houses were shuttered, wind round them muttered,_

_roads were empty. I sat by a door,_

_and where drizzling rain poured down a drain_

_I cast away all that I bore:_

_in my clutching hand some grains of sand,_

_And a sea-shell silent and dead._

_Never will my ear that bell hear,_

_never my feet that shore tread,_

_never again, as in sad lane,_

_in blind alley and in long street_

_ragged I walk. To myself I talk;_

_For still they speak not, men that I meet.”_

Bilbo did not know why, but it filled him with such sadness that his dreams were broken and troubled and not at all peaceful.

*

“Thorin!” Bofur called from the middle of the group. Thorin turned his head to look at the Dwarf, who was grinning. “Do we have safe passage through the forest?”

“Aye,” Dwalin answered before Thorin could.

“Balin spoke to representatives of Mirkwood some weeks ago just shortly after our agreement to this journey.” Thorin said, turning back to face the front. “The Elves will not harm us on the journey there and back again.”

“Good, good.” Bofur said cheerfully. “I don’t exactly want to end up in a cell again, if you get my concern.”

“None of us do.” Fíli chortled. “They were _Elven_ cells.”

“Aye,” Bofur agreed with a twinkle in his eyes.

*

Bilbo and Frodo stood at the very edge of the Dead Marshes, the jagged rocks against their backs.

“These Marshes do not look friendly.” Bilbo noted.

“Nor should they.” Frodo said. “But we must keep moving. The closer the Ring gets to the Mountain, the stronger its attempts to sway you will be. The faster we can get there, the faster we can be rid of it.”

“Well, let’s get going, shall we?” Bilbo said, forcing himself to sound more cheerful than he actually felt.

Frodo sighed and they began making their way down into the Marshes.

The way to Mordor was perilous, and Bilbo had known that from the start. Frodo did not hide just what lay ahead for them, and Bilbo found himself wishing more and more that he had just gone home to the Shire. In the waters of the Dead Marshes were the bodies of hundreds of warriors, long dead. They seemed almost ethereal as they floated in the murky waters, and Bilbo found himself unable to tear his gaze away.

“Do not touch the water.” Frodo had warned when they entered, and so Bilbo did not. But he watched, unable to stop himself.

“Who were they?” Bilbo asked one evening, doing his best to ignore the shrieks in the distance of some unknown creature.

“Soldiers,” Frodo said without looking up from the bread he was rationing out. “They fought against Sauron in the first war.”

“That was thousands of years ago.” Bilbo said, glancing back at the corpse of a young lad, barely looking twenty, his face peaceful and tinted green. “They look as if they had just died.”

“They are undead.” Frodo said. “Touch the waters and they will come alive and kill you. Do not follow the lights.”

“Friendly.” Bilbo murmured. “What lights?”

“Little fires—there!” Frodo cried, pointing to a flicker of flame that rose just above a corpse. “Do not follow.”

“Following means death?” Bilbo guessed.

“Yes,” Frodo said dryly. “Come eat, Bilbo. Stop looking at them. Let us see if we can avoid all the mistakes I made during my journey.”

“Okay,” Bilbo said and joined Frodo. “I take it you tried to follow the lights.”

“I did indeed.” Frodo said. “Gollum and Samwise saved me.”

Bilbo wanted to ask of the poem Frodo had muttered last night, but was not sure if it was something he had been meant to overhear and so instead asked; “How much longer will it be?”

“We’re a week out.” Frodo said. “The Eagles said that should we destroy the Ring they will take us to Gondor.”

“Will they not fly us further?” Bilbo asked, dismayed.

“I can speak to them.” Frodo said. “I may be able to convince them to fly us to just past the Greyflood, near Tharbad. But they will probably not go further.”

“That is near enough.” Bilbo said, recalling his maps and the trails from Tharbad to the Shire. “If they do that than we could be home by the end of the month.”

“I hope.” Frodo sighed. “To be honest my thoughts were of catching you before you left Erebor and not negotiating with gigantic birds.”

Bilbo smiled. “Well, apparently I have something of a Silver-tongue about me,” he said. “We will see what we can convince them to do.”

*

“I hope he made it home safely,” Fíli whispered to his brother.

“As do I,” Kíli responded. “Will he be happy to see us?”

“Will he want to see us?” Fíli countered.

“Will he invite us to speak?”

“Will he hear us out?”

“Will he be glad we have come?”

“Will he let us take him home to Erebor?”

“Not with your yammering.” Dwalin growled. “Shut it.”

“Yes, sir.” Fíli and Kíli said together, but shared a look of hope and fear, for while they hoped their burglar—their friend—was at home safe and sound with his dishes and his mother’s glory box and would be willing and happy to see them and hear their apology, they were not so sure. 

“I hope he is safe.” Kíli said softly, and though Fíli did not speak, he nudged Kíli’s shoulder and they rode on.

*

The Ash Mountains were an oppressing wall of black mountains, with dark clouds lit with an orange glow. The air had turned foul at the Marshes, but only grew worse once they were clear of it. Bilbo had wrapped a bit of cloth around his mouth and did his best to breathe. Frodo did no such thing, but Bilbo had begun to understand that Frodo was not all there; some portion of him was still in his past; Bilbo’s future. He did not struggle to breathe for he cared little for the damage and the pain the air wrought on his body. His eyes, which at first seemed ancient to Bilbo, now seemed haunted and deadened, and Bilbo began to realize that it wasn’t just returning to Mordor that put that look in Frodo’s eyes—it was his continued existence.

Frodo had lost everything and now, though he had a second chance in his life, he would never have it again. His friends would never be the same, and worst of all he would still be alive. Bilbo planned to return to the Shire, but Frodo himself had told him that he no longer considered the Shire his home. Frodo had nothing to look forwards to and nothing to lose. Bilbo felt pity for him, much as he had felt pity for Gollum; both living a half-life, both losing everything to the war and the Ring and its evil. 

(Bilbo had a feeling Frodo would not appreciate being compared to such a wretched creature, and so kept his thoughts to himself).

“How will we get in?” Bilbo panted, pushing air into his lungs with a painful force.

“The Black Gate ought to have a limited guard.” Frodo said. “But we best scout everything out, first, and see all the ways in. Sauron had built the defenses back up in my time, but let us see if we cannot find some way to worm inside.”

“And if there is no way?” Bilbo asked. Frodo’s expression darkened.

“Then we go through Shelob’s cave.” Frodo said grimly. “Though I hope it will not come to that.”

“The giant spider?” Bilbo guessed. Frodo nodded his head sharply.

And so the two Hobbits hid and watched and waited. No one noticed them, for Hobbits were the quietest creatures, rivaling (and for those who practised, exceeding) the quietness of the Elves. Hobbits are not warriors. They are not very wise. But they can hide in the shadows, allowing all war and hate and hardship to pass them by, and both Hobbits, so very far away from home, put this skill into good use. Bilbo did not dare use the Ring, but they hid behind rocks and in small caves and waited and watched and waited some more. They slept during the day, one keeping watching and the other pretending to sleep.

They left their packs buried in the soil high on a hill, for hopeful retrieval should they survive their trip through Mordor. They stuffed food in their pockets and slung their water skins with a bit of rope across their shoulders, covering them up with their cloaks.

At night they would creep up to the large black gates and search and look and poke. This was how three days went by until Frodo, when on a ledge above and to the left of Bilbo, let out a soft cry. Bilbo hurried up to where his nephew-cousin stood and together they gazed at a small crack in the large black gates.

They were nearly thirty feet above the ground, and the ledges were slippery and small. Their Hobbit feet were bloodied and battered and the toenails chipped and torn.

The crack that Frodo had found would not fit a regular Hobbit, as Respectable Hobbits tended to be thick around the middle. But both Bilbo and Frodo had long ago given up being Respectable, and had lived with minimal food for months on end while pushing their bodies quite hard. Frodo squeezed into the hole first, a dagger he had pulled from his pack clenched in his fist. Bilbo clung to the ledge, trying not to look down.

Frodo moved slowly, and it took a long time for him to move along enough that his feet were no longer visible. Bilbo waited on baited breath, hoping against hope that Frodo would not meet any advisories.

“Bilbo,” Frodo’s voice whispered in the darkness.

“Yes?” Bilbo asked hoarsely.

“I’ve made it through, but the sun is approaching.” Frodo said.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo moaned, glancing up at the sky which was, indeed, beginning to lighten.

“It would take too long for me or you to crawl to the other side.” Frodo said. “But I will find a place to hide. You hide in the rocks on that side.”

“We’re to separate?” Bilbo squeaked.

“I am sorry.” Frodo muttered. “I did not . . . I did not think this through. I thought we had more time. But we haven’t a choice. If we try to continue, we will be seen. I see signs of recent Orc activity. If they catch us, we will die and all hope for Middle Earth shall be lost.”

“I don’t like this.” Bilbo hissed.

“Nor do I,” Frodo admitted. “But right now we haven’t a choice. Hurry! I shall see you tonight.”

“What if one of us is captured or killed?” Bilbo said.

There was a pause. “If it is I, then continue and _destroy the Ring at all costs_.” Frodo said. “If it is you . . . then I shall find the Ring and attempt . . . attempt to destroy it. I know not if I would be successful.”

“I think you would be.” Bilbo said. Frodo said nothing. “I shall see you tonight, then.”

“Agreed,”

Bilbo clambered down from the narrow ledge, and noticed with growing dismay that the sky was lightening still. When he finally made it to the ground, the sun was just cresting the far horizon. Bilbo thanked Yavanna that he was on the West side of Mordor, and hurried to the rocks, preying he would not be seen. He tried not to think of Frodo, stuck _inside_ Mordor for the day.

He did his utmost best not to think that he would be joining him soon.

Bilbo crouched amongst the rocks all day, neither sleeping nor resting fully, for always he remained as coiled as wire, ready to fight or run. He ate little and drank less. He found a small natural cave, more of a divot in the sandy rocks, where he waited, and keeping time with the rising and setting sun. No birds sang, and the wind barely stirred the air, as if even it was afraid of the dark lands.

Once a small group or Orcs appeared over the wall of the Black Gate, and Bilbo trembled as the scouts looked around for any signs of trouble. They were lazy in their glances, for no one dared to attack Mordor, and no one had approached in many, many centuries. Bilbo remained unnoticed, and when the sun finally sank he extracted himself from the ground and slipped into the shadows, straying away from the dying light. In the evening dusk, Bilbo climbed the wall again, once more making sure no one was watching, until he arrived at the small crack in the wall.

There he waited, breathing softly, but loud enough for a Hobbit’s ears to pick up. A short time later, Frodo’s voice whispered;

“Bilbo?”

“Yes, yes!” Bilbo whispered back. “How are you?”

“Fine—the coast is clear,” the other Hobbit said. “Come through.”

Bilbo nodded, though Frodo could not see and hoisted himself over the lip of the crack and into the small tunnel.

It was a dreadful squeeze; sharp rocks poked into his skin and his hands were shivering with the effort to pull himself forwards. His feet kicked out, looking for grips to propel himself forwards. He did not know how long he crawled through, only that it seemed hours upon hours. He was sweating and panting with the effort, and would have surely taken another pass through the Misty Mountains in the stead of this nightmare.

The crack was long and occasionally twisted slightly with a gravelly floor and an uneven ceiling and walls. It was somewhat circular, and looked as if it had not been well-thought out. It had to have been made—there was no other way a crack could go through from one end of the wall to the other.

“How did this crack go all the way through?” He grunted when he took a short break.

“I think perhaps Goblins or something made it.” Frodo said. “Or perhaps a small Rock Worm.”

“Like the ones at the battle?” Bilbo wheezed.

“Yes. Save your strength.” Frodo commanded, and Bilbo fell silent, pushing his way forwards.

He knew he was almost there when he felt Frodo’s fingertips brush his outstretched hand.

“Bilbo?” Frodo said. “Nearly there, come on!”

“I am coming.” Bilbo said crossly. “I feel the ledge—and, ah!” And Bilbo wormed his way out and onto the (much larger) ledge on the other side. Frodo helped him fall, unable to catch him but stopping his momentum enough so that Bilbo did not crack his head.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said. “I am . . . quite tired.”

Frodo said nothing, and Bilbo looked up at him. It was so dark that he could barely make out the other Hobbit. He twisted around to look, seeking light. Surely the moon—the stars— _anything_ —and there was. An orange light angrily highlighting the black clouds. Following the source of the light, Bilbo set eyes, finally, on Mount Doom.

“Oh,” He said faintly. “It’s so far away.”

“We still have a long way to go.” Frodo asserted softly, with—for the first time their entire journey—a hint of fear.

Bilbo swallowed roughly.

*

Thorin felt that the crossing of the Misty Mountains went much easier than last time. This time, they were not under a time limit and more prepared for the danger lurking in the crags.

The Company went slowly, though there was an underlying intensity to their pace. They did not want to delay their journey, especially with no quick-thinking burglar or wizard to help them. They ran into a scouting party of Goblins, but they were quickly slaughtered and the Company quickly moved on.

“What will we find there?” Dwalin asked Thorin one evening when the tattooed Dwarf was on watch and Thorin could not sleep.

“Where?” Thorin asked.

“The Shire.” Dwalin said. “The others are not sayin’ it, but we’re all thinkin’ it—it is most likely that the Hobbit is dead. It was just him, Thorin, if Gandalf did not catch up with him, and the Wilds are no place for gentle folk.”

“I know,” Thorin said. “But we must go, we must see. I cannot turn back without attempting to . . . apologize to the Hobbit.”

“I know, Thorin.” Dwalin said. “I feel the same way.”

*

“Come on!” Frodo shouted. “Hurry!” The heat was intense, and sweat plastered Bilbo hair to his forehead and neck. Behind him a large group of Orcs—fifty or sixty at _least_ —were roaring behind them. True to his word, Frodo slipped them through Mordor and managed to get them to the slopes of Mount Doom before the Orcs had realized they were there. Now it was a mad scramble up the rocky slope to the entrance of the cave.

_And we were doing so well_ , Bilbo thought despairingly. They had barely been attacked—a few Orcs and Goblins near the Black Wall that Frodo easily slew and now an enormous pack of them was drawing closer as they howled and cried for blood behind them. Bilbo spared a glance back and saw to his dismay that more Orcs were joining the first batch. The group was swelling to seventy, eighty, _ninety_.

“Bilbo!” Frodo yelled. “RUN!”

Bilbo turned and scurried up to Frodo, not daring to look back again.

His pocket was growing heavy, and when he closed his eyes against the smoke all he could see was gold.

_Is this was Gold Sickness is like?_ He wondered. Frodo pulled him up by his cloak when he slipped, and he shot his nephew-cousin a grateful glance.

“There!” Frodo panted, pointing to a rock ledge that flickered orange. “Make for that! I’ll be right behind you. Don’t look back, and whatever you do, drop the Ring, Bilbo. Destroy it!”

Bilbo nodded once and scrambled up a rock as Frodo drew his sword.

The ledge led to a door way which led to a walkway which led to the Heart of Mount Doom. The path was one long path of rock, sticking out over the fiery pit. Bilbo stumbled along it, unable to tear his eyes away from the fire below him.

_Turn back,_ a voice whispered in his mind, and Bilbo’s feet stumbled slightly, their steps slowing.

“No,” Bilbo muttered to himself. “I won’t. I have come too far.”

_You don’t want to do this,_ the voice continued.

“I do,” Bilbo said, and took another step nearer to the edge. It was the hardest step he ever took, and sweat poured down his face.

_I can give you anything,_ the voice hissed. _Anything. I’ll be your most precious possession._

“No,” Bilbo said. “I want nothing you can give me.”

_Are you sure?_ The Ring, for that is what the voice was, Bilbo was sure, offered.

_I can give power,_ the Ring said. _Not just power over others. You see Frodo withering away under his brokenness and his self-hatred. I can give you the power to relieve him of that burden. To bring his friends to this time. To give him a true second chance._

“But it would be twisted,” Bilbo said, though he could not take another step. “Like everything you do. You were made to be evil. You are evil. You will always be evil.”

_But I can grant power._

“Which I do not want.”

“Bilbo!” Frodo screamed. He appeared at the mouth of the cavern. “Throw it in!” An Orc appeared and Frodo turned to engage it.

Bilbo tried to call out, tried to move, but he could not do either.

_You can help him._ The Ring said silkily.

Bilbo took another step, and he could see the fires of the Mountain roaring below him. “I can,” He said. “But not with your help.”

“Bilbo!” Frodo screamed. “Bilbo destroy it! Don’t listen to it!”

Bilbo tried to tune the Ring’s soft, enchanting voice out, tried to think of Bofur singing at Rivendell, of Thorin hugging him after he was wounded. 

For Ori asking about the Hobbit culture, of Kíli and Fíli singing while throwing his dishes about.

He thought of Balin and Dwalin greeting each other after not seeing each other for years, of Nori and Dori slowly mending their wounded relationship, and of Bifur and Bombur speaking animatedly to each other over a stew pot. 

He brought forth thoughts of Glóin speaking of his family, of Óin speaking of his herbs and his home. 

He thought of Gandalf and his fireworks, of the Elves and the beauty of Rivendell, and of the magnificence of Erebor, of the kindness and desperation of Bard. 

He thought of Bag End and the rolling green hills of the Shire, the beauty in the rippling streams and well-loved paths. And he thought of Frodo, who had grown quite dear to him in the time that they spent together. He thought to Frodo laughing, free and open. He thought of when Frodo told him of the friends he once had, of their hardships and endings.

They were all things the Ring could never understand, could never give him, and with that—without thinking, without _noticing_ —Bilbo removed the Ring from his pocket and tossed it.

For in the end, it was just gold. Powerful and beautiful, but gold still. And he was a Hobbit, who had no use or love for such a thing.

His eyes could not stop watching it—they tracked it up, up, up into the air, and band of gold alit with orange-gold wrathful fire. It seemed to soar, seemed to fly, and for a panicked moment Bilbo wondered if it _could_ fly and then it would be lost forever, sailing away to its master—but no, its descent was just was graceful. Bilbo’s heart was seized with panic, with horror, for he was about to witness _his_ Ring, _his precious_ destroyed and for an awful moment Bilbo wanted to leap in after it, dive into the fires and clutch it close to his heart as they burned together . . .

But suddenly arms encircled him and he was pulled to the ground. He rolled to the ledge just in time to see the Ring land in the lava, and he watched, torn between horror and happiness, as the Ring slid beneath the surface.

The arms were shaking him, and Bilbo wondered if what had gotten him was an Orc, who would then throw him into the fires after his— _the_ —Ring. But no, the voice screaming in his ear was not Orcish. It was that of a Hobbit, and one Bilbo had grown to know and like.

_Frodo_.

Bilbo turned to look at Frodo, who was still screaming. His eyes, though, his eyes were frozen on the lava and Bilbo knew that they had experience the same jolting feeling of _MINE_.

“We have to get out of here!” Frodo screamed as the mountain rumbled. Bilbo watched as a geyser of lava sprouted from the mass of writhing flames.

“What happened to the Orcs?” Bilbo said, unaware and drifting, listing heavily on Frodo as the other Hobbit tugged them into a standing position.

“I rolled several rocks on them.” Frodo said. “They were wary to come after me after that. It—it distracted them long enough for me to make it here. They fled as soon as the Ring was—as soon as the Ring was . . .”

“Orcs are stupid.” Bilbo said as they stumbled out into the (relatively) fresh air. Behind him he could hear a crumbling sound, but in his daze and fog could not place the sound.

“Yes!” Frodo said and staggered down the mountainside a little ways before reaching a protruding rock ledge where he and Bilbo collapsed. “Sam and I stayed here.” Frodo said. “The Eagles will come.”

Bilbo had been staring at the sky numbly, but now he rolled over and was greeted with the sight of lava—lava _everywhere_. It surrounded them, and on their ledge it could not go, but everywhere else . . .

Bilbo dragged himself to look over the top of the ledge and saw Orcs in the far distance screaming and screeching as they tried to avoid the fire and death.

“We did it.” Bilbo said through swollen lips and dry tongue.

“You did it.” Frodo corrected.

“No.” Bilbo said. “I would not have known. I would not have had the courage to come. And I certainly would not have made it to Mordor without you, my dear Frodo. You played just as large of a part in this quest as you did in the last one. Middle Earth cannot thank you enough for doing this not once but _twice_.”

Frodo said nothing, and after a while Bilbo slipped off to sleep.

*

“What do you mean?” Thorin asked, fear laced in his voice. Gandalf stood before them at the base of the Misty Mountains, leaning heavily on his staff and looking grim. “Where else could he be?”

“I do not know.” Gandalf said. “I know that I had a meeting with Radagast and Beorn, and I intended to take Bilbo home afterwards. However, when I traveled through Lake-Town I heard that you banished him, Thorin, and that he had not been seen since. I set out immediately, but could find no trace of him. I traveled all the way to Rivendell, where Elrond has not seen him either. I know that Bilbo would not have gone past Rivendell without stopping; he enjoyed his time there too much. I know not where he could have gone.”

“Bilbo’s not at the Shire?” Kíli repeated. “But—he was so eager to go home! He spoke of it often. He would not delay his return, not if nothing was keeping him.”

“Aye, I agree.” Bofur said. “What does this mean for Bilbo, Gandalf?”

“I do not know.” Gandalf admitted. “However, we may press on to the Shire. Perhaps Bilbo has taken a different route that bypassed Rivendell altogether on accident.”

The Company clung to that hope, desperate though it may have been.

* 

Bilbo awoke cold.

He blinked and all he saw was the sky.

“Bilbo!” Frodo cried next to him. Bilbo rolled his head to look at his nephew-cousin and furrowed his eyebrows.

“Where are we?” He tried, but could make his tongue do what he wanted and so it came out as “er re e?”

“Don’t talk just yet, Bilbo.” Frodo said. “Here,” Frodo carefully lifted a skin of water and poured a bit into Bilbo mouth, some splashing on his face.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, clearing his throat slightly and wincing at the dryness of it. “I was asking where we were.”

“On an Eagle,” Frodo said. Bilbo blinked and turned his head. He was lying on the back of one of the enormous eagles that rescued the Company from the White Orc. A feather brushed his nose and he scrunched it up against the immediate itch.

“Oh,” He said. “How long was I out?”

“A week,” Frodo said. “Shorter than I was. We’ve switched a couple of Eagles since then. Made a stop in Gondor—I’ve got supplies for us now—and are now flying over Dunland. The Eagles have agreed to drop us off at the Greenway.”

“Splendid. We didn’t die, then?” Bilbo said, half-joking and half-serious.

“No,” Frodo breathed. Then, softly, “I was expecting to.”

Bilbo felt his stomach drop. “You were _expecting_ to?” He cried, struggling to sit up. Frodo ducked his head.

“Being so many years in the past made it easier than I was expecting.” He defended himself. “It was much harder for me, and I was expecting it to turn out to be harder.”

“That _was_ hard!” Bilbo said.

“Yes, but not as hard as what Sam and I went through.” Frodo said.

“Oh,” Bilbo said, realizing what Frodo had been getting at, and feeling ashamed. “My, er, apologies. Welcome to the past.”

Frodo stared at Bilbo for a long moment before throwing back his head and laughing. He laughed and laughed, and Bilbo could hear the relief and happiness that tickled the edges of that laugh and could not help but join in.

The two Hobbits did not stop laughing for a long while, though their eyes burned and their throats cried out and the wind was fierce.

They felt alive again.

*

“It has been two weeks.” Ori muttered to Nori. “When will we reach Rivendell?”

“Soon, Master Ori.” Gandalf called back, and Ori twitched in his surprise. Nori shot him a smirk and Ori did his best to ignore it.

The Company rode in silence, having very little left to say to one another in the face of Bilbo’s disappearance.

“There!” Fíli shouted, pointing ahead.

The Dwarves chatted quietly amongst themselves as they neared the graceful city, and Ori looked up at in in awe. He had been here only once before, and he surprised himself in forgetting just how beautiful Lord Elrond’s city was. They began descending the cliff, the well-worn path proving easy for their ponies and Gandalf’s horse. As they approached the entrance to the city, Ori heard the footsteps of many a hurried Elf.

“Trouble?” Thorin’s soft voice cut through the talking like a knife and there was dead silence as the Company looked in on the Elves running to and fro.

“I do not know.” Gandalf frowned. “I have heard of nothing.”

“Gandalf!” Lord Elrond’s mighty voice boomed from a balcony as they drew nearer. The ponies nickered and huddled together in the middle of the courtyard. As one the Company swung off their ponies and stood waiting to hear the news that had the normally stoic Elves in an uproar.

“What is it, old friend?” Gandalf asked.

“Mount Doom has erupted.” Lord Elrond responded as he descended a flight of steps to their level. “The Steward of Gondor has sent the word of fire in the sky.”

“How can this be?” Gandalf murmured, staring at Elrond. Ori had never seen the Wizard looking so shaken in all their time together.

“There has been a call for the White Council.” Lord Elrond said. “We gather in two weeks. Allies in Gondor and Rohan are journeying to Mordor to try and see what is happening before coming here. We have asked that representatives from all major cities come to discuss this.”

“Bilbo,” was all Gandalf managed.

“What of the Hobbit?” Lord Elrond asked. “I have not seen him since you were here last.”

“I could find no trace of him.” Gandalf said. “I thought perhaps he had taken a different route, but now that Mount Doom has erupted . . . I am finding it likely that the Hobbit has perished by some Orcs.”

The Dwarves erupted into shouts of denial, of protests, and Ori could only stand there, clutching at his woolen mitts in hopes that the next words out of Gandalf’s are those that claimed jest, yet none came.

“No,” He muttered to himself, and no one heard him over their own voices.

“Silence!” Gandalf snapped. “The White Council is meeting in two weeks. If we are fast and do not stop, we may make it to the Shire and see if Bilbo is at home and return in time. Lord Elrond,” Gandalf said, turning towards the dark haired Elf. “The Hobbit was a key player in the battle and the recovery of Erebor—”

“Go,” Lord Elrond held up a hand to stall Gandalf’s pleas. “Take our fastest horses. They shall get you there in time. Two Dwarves per horse, I think.”

“Thank you.” Gandalf said. Lord Elrond nodded and turned his head to shout a command at a waiting Elf. The Elf nodded and darted away. 

“I hope you find him.” Lord Elrond murmured. Gandalf inclined his head and Lord Elrond was pulled away into a discussion with serious looking Elves.

“And now?” Ori asked in the vacuum of silence.

“And now we wait.” Gandalf said. “And pray we find Bilbo safe at home.”

*

“There it is.” Frodo breathed, looking out at the green hills of the Shire with wonder and warmth. “The Shire.”

“Yes.” Bilbo said. “I have missed it.”

“Soon enough you’ll be bored.” Frodo said. “Mark my words, Bilbo; you shall get bored and go wandering about.”

“And have a marvelous time of it.” Bilbo agreed. “I don’t doubt I shall do just that. I bet I’ll have company, though.” He shot a glance at Frodo, who grinned.

“I don’t think you’ll be getting rid of me that quickly.” He said. “Though I believe I shall purchase a house of my own—don’t want you to get too tired of me.”

“I doubt I can,” Bilbo said. “For you are my friend and relative.”

“You hate your relatives.” Frodo pointed out. Bilbo chuckled and shook his head.

“Not all of them.” He said, glancing at Frodo out of the corner of his eye. “Some are rather of the good sort.”

Frodo simply shook his head.

“And what of your younger self?” Bilbo asked as they began to walk down the hill. “What of your parents?”

“I shall do my best to save them.” Frodo said. “Though it has been so long I am unsure when it will happen. If I do not . . ." Frodo closed his eyes for a moment. "If I don’t save them, Bilbo, will you look out for young Frodo?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Bilbo said solemnly.

“Thank you,” Frodo said. “I wasn’t too bad of a terror when I was young.”

Bilbo grinned. “Well, it will still be an adventure.” He said. “Though who will look out for him while we go off is beyond me—if we cannot save his parents, that is.”

“We will figure something out.” And there they fell silent, looking out at the peacefulness of the Shire and breathing in the air that was tainted with the smells of good food, pipe weed, and green growing things. It smelt like home.

“I have not thought of this place as . . . _home_ in many a year.” Frodo said as if reading Bilbo’s thoughts. “What do you think of that, Bilbo?”

Bilbo shook his head. “I think that that is something you must rediscover for yourself.” Bilbo said.

“When I returned from Mordor the first time around,” Frodo said. “I could not stand the Hobbits I had known all my life. They went about their day as normal. They would never— _could_ never—understand what I had been through and I felt the stagnation, the unchanging-ness of the Shire and I wanted out. I wanted away.”

“We’re both going to feel that.” Bilbo said gently, stopping and looking at Frodo, who looked back with solemn blue eyes. Before him, Bilbo could see Frodo’s brokenness and pain, and realized that while the Ring could not have fixed Frodo, Bilbo could begin doing so now. “We are both going to feel that because we have seen and done things that they never will. It is through no fault of their own, Frodo. It is in Hobbit nature to live peacefully. But that is the thing, I think, about the Shire. Our home, Frodo, is that of comfort. It is a place to return to when your feet are weary and your heart heavy. When you have been through trials such as you and I have, we must have a place to return to that we can call home. We are not warriors, nor will we ever be, I think. It is not who we are, regardless of what we have been through.

“It does not mean we should stay; indeed, I think it ought to be an encouragement to leave. And that is what we shall do. For the Shire is our home, and it always shall be. But that does not mean we need to stick here all the time. The Shire is, as you said, unchanging. We shan’t miss anything. And in a world where there is uncertainty everywhere, even in the hearts of those we meet, we need a constant in our life, and for you and me, Frodo, that means the Shire.”

Bilbo finished his little impromptu speech feeling quite pleased with himself, smiling at Frodo’s gaping mouth and widened eyes before turning his attention to the rolling grassy hills and twisting Brandywine River.

“I had never thought of it that way.” Frodo said when he had closed his mouth. “Even after all this time you are still teaching me things, uncle.”

Bilbo chucked and together the two cousins continued on their way.

The Hobbits that they saw out and about working the fields or walking along pathways gawked at them and at their dirty faces and torn clothing. Frodo and Bilbo ignored them; speaking cheerfully of the people they saw along the way, of little stories of the little Hobbits both now and in the future.

“Mr. Bilbo!” A voice cried, and Bilbo looked over to see Bell Gamgee, the young wife of his gardener, Hamfast.

“Why, Mistress Gamgee!” He said, surprised and pleased to see her. “Looking quite well, I must say.”

Bell Gamgee smiled and nodded politely to Frodo. “It is good to see you, sir.”

“And you,” Bilbo said warmly. “However, I am quite eager to get to Bag End, so we must catch up later, which I am quite looking forwards to doing.”

“Of course, Mister Baggins.” She said and smiled once more before hurrying back into the market fray.

“So that’s what she looked like when young.” Frodo said. “She’s always been wonderful to us odd Bagginses, but to see her so young . . .”

“I’ll bet,” Bilbo said, startled. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’ll be seeing more young people.”

“Well, I’m seeing you young.” Frodo said dryly. “That’s a surprise.”

“Oh, stop it.” Bilbo said, smacking Frodo’s arm. “Oh, look, Bag Shot Row. Come on, lad! Hurry up!”

There were a few more stares, some of shock and disbelief and some of irritation, as if Bilbo returning with an unknown Hobbit after going on an adventure was a personal grievance towards them.

“Warmer welcome than I was expecting.” Bilbo remarked as he continued walking. Frodo followed, nodding in amusement. And there, at the top of the Hill, was Bilbo’s beloved Bag End. When they reached it, it looked untouched. The garden was looking just as gorgeous as it always did and the door looked to be freshly painted. They let themselves through the gate and Bilbo unlocked his door with the key he had buried in the roof and letting himself in

Frodo seemed to know where he was going, so Bilbo left him to his own devices as they retreated into their rooms (for Frodo told him that the room he was headed to had been his room for a long time and Bilbo did not argue) and the two took long baths, getting the grime off their bodies and dressing in clean clothes.

Bilbo was done before Frodo, and Bilbo suspected Frodo was dressing several of his wounds—wounds he had sustained from fighting off so many Orcs.

_“It wasn’t bad,”_ Frodo had said. _“These Orcs were unprepared and chaotic. A couple of boulders—which I used a branch to lever out of place—and they scattered for a while. The older ones came after me, but were not expecting me to fight back so well. A few nicks—all shallow. They’ll heal without any scars, and I got medical supplies in Gondor. Don’t worry, Bilbo.”_

He put the kettle on and looked into his pantry before remembering it was decimated by Dwarves nearly a year and a half before.

A knock at the door fixed that, as it was Hamfast Gamgee with a basket of food.

“Bell said you’d need it.” He said without so much as a hello, but Bilbo was much too tired to deal with formalities, and Bell must have seen that and told Hamfast. Bilbo really could not believe his luck in finding such excellent Hobbits.

“You really shouldn’t have.” Bilbo said when he paused in thanking his poor gardener. Hamfast told Bilbo how good it was to see him, excused himself to go look after the missus, who was pregnant. She hadn’t been showing in the market, and Bilbo promised to swing by soon to have a proper catch-up. Bilbo wished him, his wife, and his children all good luck and thanks before returning inside to see Frodo sitting at the dining room table. “Who was that?” The dark haired Hobbit asked.

“Hamfast Gamgee.” Bilbo said. “He brought us dinner.”

“Your pantry is gone?” Frodo said.

“Well, last time I was here I fed thirteen Dwarves and a wizard.” Bilbo said. “Without warning. I think I did rather well.”

“I agree.” Frodo said. “It is a tale I have heard many times.”

Bilbo smiled at him. They ate their way through meat pastries and rolls of bread and Bilbo would never be able to repay the Gamgees for the kindness they were showing him (and by extent, Frodo).

They were just wrapping up, sitting comfortably in chairs in front of the fire with their pipes in hand when there was a knock at the door.

Bilbo looked dismayed. “No,” He said, doing his best to ignore Frodo’s soft huff of laughter. “No!” He raised his voice as he got to his aching feet and made his way to the door, Frodo trailing behind him huffing with amusement. “If it is busybodies, Sackville-Bagginses, or any other curious Hobbit, come back _later!_ ”

“And what about very old friends?” A voice replied, one that both Bilbo and Frodo recognized.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo asked in surprise as he pulled the door open and was greeted by a wizard and ten Dwarves including, standing at the front and looking very stoically apologetic, Thorin, King of Erebor. There was a pregnant pause, in which both groups stared in shock at each other.

“I’m out of food.” Were the words that slipped out of Bilbo’s mouth.

“BILBO!” Came the resounding roar of voices as Bilbo was actually tackled to the ground as the Dwarves rushed to him. Frodo was sensible enough to hide behind the door and watch, laughing, as Bilbo struggled to breathe.

“Fat lot of help you are, Frodo!” Bilbo shouted at the other Hobbit, who merely shook his head and continued to watch.

“Enough.” Thorin’s voice cut through the din and slowly the Dwarves untangled themselves from each other and Bilbo and stood back, allowing Bilbo to sit up. Thorin, Óin, Dwalin, and Glóin had remained where they were standing, although they, too, looked relieved and happy to see Bilbo.

“We have come asking for forgiveness, and to tell you your banishment has been lifted.” Thorin said, looking very uncomfortable. Bilbo blinked, having completely forgotten he had been banished in the first place. Bilbo said nothing, waiting for Thorin to get his words out. “I was not well, and for the things that I said, I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.” Bilbo said. “But I really don’t have any food; I just got back. So if you’re hungry I suggest we move to the Green Dragon Inn or some such place.”

“Much as we would like to, Bilbo, we must get back to Rivendell.” Gandalf said quietly. “Something has happened in the far East, something that must been looked into immediately.”

“What happened?” Frodo asked, looking intently at Gandalf. “You’re—you’re Gandalf the Grey, are you not?” He asked. Bilbo blinked. Had he not known that Frodo knew perfectly well who Gandalf was, he would have thought the boy had never met the wizard.

“Who are you?” Gandalf asked.

“Er, Frodo Baggins.” Frodo said. “I’m Bilbo’s cousin. I’m from Buckland.”

“Ah,” Gandalf said. “There are so many of you Bagginses.”

“I know.” Frodo agreed. “But Bilbo has always been my favorite cousin. I’ve missed him in the time he was gone.” There a few Dwarves shifted uncomfortably and Bilbo suppressed a smile.

“He did a good thing in the world.” Gandalf said.

“I’ve no doubt of that.” Frodo said. “I just wish I had been invited.”

“I was not aware Hobbits wanted adventures.” Thorin muttered, looking at Frodo, “Master Baggins here seemed quite reluctant.”

“Not all Hobbits are the same.” Frodo said. “Though if you wanted a willing Hobbit you all should have gone to the Tooks.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said in amusement. “Thought they tend to lack in the wisdom department.”

“What, like a certain Baggins who went running out his door without a handkerchief?” Frodo sniped.

“Hush, you.” Bilbo scolded. “You’ll have to excuse my cousin; he’s just out of Tweenhood.” Frodo shot Bilbo a glare and Bilbo raised an eyebrow as several Dwarves chuckled good-naturedly. “But he did ask a good question.” Bilbo continued. “What is the meeting for, Gandalf?”

“Mount Doom, in Mordor, has erupted.” Gandalf said quietly. “Would you know anything of this?”

“No.” Bilbo said. “So you must leave already?”

“Would you be interested in joining us, Bilbo?” Fíli asked. “We have missed you.”

Bilbo looked at the Dwarves, at the wizard, and at his time traveling cousin. They all looked expectant, excited and hopeful.

“All right,” He said and ignored the cheers that several Dwarves (and Frodo) cried out. “But I’m putting my affairs in order. Frodo, be a good lad and make sure everything in the house is locked up tight.”

Frodo nodded and darted off into the depths of the house.

“Mordor,” Bilbo said. “That far to the East, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Thorin said. “I take it you know its history?”

“I live in the Shire, not oblivion.” Bilbo responded tartly. “Even us humble Shirelings know about Sauron and Mordor.”

“Good.” Dwalin grunted.

“My dear Bilbo,” Gandalf said. “I’m sure we’d all like to hear what happened to you. When I attempted to find you, I could see no trace and I journeyed to Rivendell in hopes of finding you there, but they had not seen you since the Company left.”

“What the wizard is saying is, what happened?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo looked at them, “Look, I didn’t know where Gandalf was,” he said. “I stayed in the ruins of Dale,” There he saw Thorin and several other Dwarves wince and he shook his head. “I was fine,” he said dismissively. “It was there a traveler passed by heading south to Rohan and Gondor. He convinced me to come along and I agreed.” Bilbo felt slightly bad about manipulating the truth, or at least omitting large portions of the actual story, but he continued. “He traveled down. I had not fancied going through the Misty Mountains alone,” he explained. “Seeing as last time we were there, there were Stone Giant battles and Goblin Towns and such. So I went near Rohan and Gondor and came up through Dunland. I only just got back today, in fact.”

Gandalf’s piercing gaze sliced through him. “There is something you are not telling us,” he said slowly. “Quite a number of things, in fact.”

“Yes.” Bilbo agreed. “But I believe it can wait until after the council has met. For now, I must make sure the Gamgees know that I will be gone for a week. They’ll be quite disappointed,” he said. Frodo came back at the time, two bags packed.

“Thank you, Frodo. You don’t mind if my cousin comes along, do you?” he asked the Company. “He has always wanted to see Rivendell.”

“Next time, perhaps.” Gandalf said. “Bilbo knows the way; he can take you at a later point.”

“But I wish to see the Trolls and the city!” Frodo said, looking hopefully up at Gandalf. “Please,” He added softly. “I shan’t get in the way, I promise.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo said. “I must insist he comes. I shan’t budge on this.”

“Does he have something to do with what you aren’t telling us?” Fíli asked, looking suspiciously at Frodo who only smiled.

“Yes,” Bilbo admitted, ignoring the slight frown on Frodo’s face.

“Then he shall come.” Thorin said, backing out of the house. “And don’t forget your pocket handkerchief this time, Master Burglar!” He called over his shoulder.

*

“Do you plan on telling them?” Frodo hissed at Bilbo a little while later. Bilbo had insisted upon stopping at the Gamgees and letting Hamfast know that he had some business to attend to before he could fully stay in the Shire. Hamfast readily agreed, and told Bilbo it was nice seeing him. Bilbo quickly wrote on a piece of paper, which he and the two Gamgees signed, saying he had business in the East and would be gone for three weeks at most. With that safely kept by the Gamgees, Bilbo bid them one last farewell before leaving their home.

The Dwarves had given Bilbo and Frodo the extra horse, and the two Hobbits clung to the saddle as it their life depended on it. True to Gandalf’s word, the horses did not stop. They had ridden for two days and two nights, and now on the third day they were several hours out from Rivendell.

The first day Bilbo and the Dwarves loudly asked questions to each other over the wind, catching up on things a bit. Bilbo did not share much with the Dwarves, but listened intently to stories of a recovering Erebor. On the second day most of them had rode low in their saddles in an attempt to block out the wind and so there was little talk amongst the travellers.

“I don’t know.” Bilbo admitted, glancing at the Company in front of them. “Perhaps.”

“Why?” Frodo asked.

“Perhaps they deserve answers!” Bilbo hissed. “Look, Frodo, Lord Elrond and Gandalf have been waiting for Sauron to reappear for _three thousand years_. They, out of everyone, deserve to know the truth, which is that their time of waiting is over and shall never be again. I will not lie to them, I will tell them!”

Frodo shook his head. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I was so looking forwards to being anonymous, to have no one know my name and such. Did you know that the entire kingdom of Gondor knelt for me and my friends? A whole city of Men, with visiting Dwarves and Elves, bowing to four simple Hobbits! I have never wanted that, Bilbo, and that was before the time travel and the Valar. How will the Dwarves and Elves and Men gathering react to such a tale?”

“I would not bring up the time travel if you did not want it known.” Bilbo said, loud enough so that Frodo could hear.

“I know,” Frodo said. “But I highly doubt our tale would make sense without it. How would a simple Hobbit, who does not exist inside or outside of the Shire—for no Frodo Baggins does exist yet—know that the One Ring has been found and is in the possession of another Hobbit who was traveling to Erebor and then _travel_ to Erebor to convince that other Hobbit to go to the most feared place on Middle Earth?”

“You are right.” Bilbo sighed. “But I still won’t say anything if you don’t want.”

“I don’t want it, but it needs to happen.” Frodo said miserably. “But promise me that you will be there, and you will not let them . . . let them do anything to me.”

“I shall back you up.” Bilbo said quietly. “And I shall make sure that if any of those gathered try to harm or manipulate you into doing something you do not want to do, they will find that Hobbits can get very, very angry and dangerous.”

“Attack of the Hobbits.” Frodo muttered.

Bilbo grinned. “Quite. I trust you, Frodo, and I know that that will speak to at least the Company and Gandalf, perhaps even for the Rivendell Elves. For there is not many ways you could get us into Mordor and out again. The Eagles, I know, would have never trusted you had you been anything but honest.”

Frodo sighed, slumping in his saddle slightly. Bilbo felt his breath on the back of his neck. “I just want peace.” He said softly.

“And you shall get it.” Bilbo replied. “I will make sure of it.”

“How can you?” Frodo asked. “Sorry, Bilbo, but we’re just two simple Hobbits.”

“Exactly.” Bilbo said. “And soon we shall pass from their immediate attention like we always do. We keep our heads down, don’t do anything extraordinary or do anything that will draw attention to ourselves beyond the occasional adventure.”

“We Bagginses used to be such respectable Hobbits.” Frodo muttered and Bilbo grinned widely, though Frodo could not see it.

They rode on.

*

“It is even more beautiful than I remembered.” Frodo murmured when they finally entered into Rivendell. The sun was shining, the clouds where white, the sky blue.

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “I have only been here once, and it is marvelous.”

“You retired here.” Frodo said. “I wished to join you, but my quest caught up to me.”

The horses ahead stopped, and Frodo and Bilbo gratefully got off their horse with the help of some Elves.

“Welcome back to Rivendell, Master Baggins.” A voice said, and the two Hobbits turned to see Lord Elrond looking down at them from the top of the steps. “Who is it you have brought along?”

“My cousin, Frodo,” Bilbo said. “I hope you don’t mind, my Lord Elrond.”

“So long as he is not near the meeting that will be taking place later, then of course he is welcome.” Lord Elrond said, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

Bilbo and Frodo bowed before following the Company deeper into the heart of the Elvish Kingdom.

* 

“He is hiding something from us.” Thorin muttered to Gandalf, watching Bilbo and his cousin chattering away with the Company, relaxing in the room Elrond had given them upon their arrival.

“I am aware.” Gandalf said.

“Do you intend to do anything about it?” Thorin hissed. Gandalf glanced at the Hobbit and puffed on his pipe, seeming to weight something in his mind.

“I have a feeling Bilbo himself will tell us.” Gandalf said finally. “Soon, I think.”

“The Council meeting is in a scarce hour.” Thorin said. “He should tell us sooner, rather than later. If the news of Mordor is what we fear, we will not have time for tales of adventure afterwards.”

“We shall see.” Gandalf murmured softly, casting a piercing glance at Bilbo.

*

“The Mountain has erupted,” a Rider of Rohan reported. “Many of the Orcs that were there perished. We are not sure what caused the Mountain to erupt.” He cast a glance at the four gathered Council members. Gandalf, Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel and Saruman the White were seated before the gathered forces. 

Bilbo and Frodo had not been invited, and they hid in the bushes that ringed the circular platform, waiting and listening. Gathered before them were Elves from the Woodland Realm, including Thranduil and his son Legolas (whom Bilbo wished was his older counterpart, for the Elf Frodo often spoke of seemed so removed and different from the blank faced, hardened prince standing before him). The Steward of Gondor, old and bent, sat regally upon a chair surrounded by his soldiers. The king of Rohan, younger by two decades or so, but no less fierce looking, did so as well. Bard was there with two other Lake-Town citizens, and several Dwarves beyond the Company had gathered from Erebor, the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains.

“I have never seen such a gathering.” Bilbo murmured to Frodo.

“Amazing what the potential end of the world can do.” Frodo muttered back, smiling slightly.

“It could mean nothing.” Saruman said, sitting straight-backed and proud in his chair. Bilbo and Frodo looked at him mistrustfully, but Frodo eventually sighed and looked away. Bilbo hoped Frodo saw something in Saruman that could be trusted, for they were about to tell him that his future master has been destroyed.

“Or it could mean everything.” Gandalf countered. “This could be a sign that Sauron has again risen to power.”

“But we weakened him in the fight at Dol Guldur.” Saruman said. “He could not have sprung back from that so quickly.”

“Saruman is right.” Lord Elrond said. “Whatever has happened, it is not, I think, Sauron’s doing.”

“Then who?” The Steward of Gondor demanded, leaning forwards with a deathly glare. “I must have my answers, Elrond, for my city is the one that is nearest of Mordor, and I will know what is to come!”

“Have peace Lord Turgon,” the Lady Galadriel said. “For I think there is more to this story than we know.” She turned to face the bushes where the two Hobbits hovered. They both stiffened and she smiled. “We have some guests who will be able to provide answers.” She said. “Come forth.”

Bilbo took his cue and stepped forwards, pulling Frodo along with him. There were some muttering around the room and he and Frodo peered anxiously around. Bilbo saw the Company looking at him with a mixture of bewilderment and confusion. A few of the young Dwarves shot grins in Bilbo’s direction, and he grimaced back.

He bowed to the Council and the gathered kings and lords. “My Lady.” He addressed the Elven queen. “My name is Bilbo Baggins, and this is my cousin Frodo Baggins.”

“Hobbits?” Saruman demanded. “We do not have time for their foolish talk.”

“Let them speak.” Lady Galadriel commanded. “I would hear what they have to say. The dark haired one—Frodo—there is something . . . strange about him.” Gandalf leaned forwards, frowning now, and even the Kings gathered fell silent, waiting.

“Thank you.” Bilbo said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Thorin’s piercing gaze cut through to him. He ignored them and focused solely on the Council.

“I was hired quite over a year ago now to be the burglar for the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.” He began. “In the end, I was banished from the halls of Erebor, which has since been lifted.” He inclined his head slightly to Thorin. “However, I did not know this until nearly a week ago, for I had set out on my travel home before I heard such news.”

“I fail to see what this has to do with Mordor.” Lord Thranduil said softly, poisonously.

“Everything.” Bilbo said, looking the Woodland King dead in the eye. “For as I rested in the ruins of Dale, someone approached me whom I had not ever expected to see.”

“And who was that?” Gandalf asked.

“Me,” Frodo said.

A shiver of whispers ran through the gathered crowed and Bilbo held up a hand, silencing them. “A Hobbit.” He agreed. “Who said his name was Frodo Underhill. Well, it was a cold night so we got to talking and I soon realized he knew far more about me than I him. It was then he asked the question that confirmed something odd was about. He asked about my ring.”

“What ring?” Bofur asked.

But Bilbo looked only at the Council, and he saw dawning comprehension on Gandalf’s and Elrond’s faces. Lady Galadriel merely watched them with ancient, knowing eyes.

“When we traveled the Misty Mountains the Dwarves of my Company were overrun by Goblins.” He said. “I succeeded in evading capture but was attacked by a solitary Goblin. We fell deep into the tunnels; so far down I know not the distance. And there I saw him, the creature Gollum. I do not know what he once was, though Frodo said he was a Halfling much like ourselves once.” There he shared a glance with Frodo, who nodded quickly.

“But it was curious, for on the ground of his . . . home, I suppose, his cave, I found a little golden ring. Without thinking I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket and I thought nothing more of it. It was not until Gollum was chasing me that I discovered it could make me invisible.”

“What Sorcery is that?” Dwalin asked hoarsely.

“I did not tell you,” Bilbo said, turning to face the tall Dwarf. “For it was mine, and I did not feel the need to share everything with you, seeing as how then you considered me nothing but a burden.” He turned again to face the Council.

“Frodo asked me about it and told me its history.” He said. “It was Sauron’s Ring of power.”

And here the Council erupted into chaos, the Men and Elves and Dwarves all shouting at each other or in general into the fray. The two Hobbits waiting patiently, for the Council leaders were once again trying to reclaim silence.

“ENOUGH!” Gandalf shouted. “SILENCE!” There was a thump as his staff hit the floor and a wind blasted them in the face, gritty and dusty, and everyone seemed to collect themselves, bubbles of noise slowly dropped away as everyone reclaimed their seats and returned to looking at the two Hobbits.

“How did you know this, Frodo?” Gandalf asked.

“I carried it once.” Frodo said. “Far in the future.”

This time there was dead silence as the gathered members stared at the Hobbit.

“I believe this is where my story starts.” Frodo said. “My name is Frodo Baggins.” Frodo said. “I was born in the year 2968 by Shire reckoning.”

“And how did you come to be here, in this time?” Lord Elrond asked softly. The audience seemed to lean forwards, waiting on baited breath to hear what Frodo said.

“I died.” Frodo said simply. “It was quite peaceful, and I was given the choice to come back here and try and fix things, to make your future a brighter place.”

“How do we know if this little _Halfling_ speaks the truth?” The King of Gondor sneered. “Time travel, the Ring of power . . . it all seems to fantastical!”

“Let us hear them out.” The King of Rohan commanded. “Whether or not they speak the truth will be dealt with afterwards.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said, bowing slightly to the king. “My parents died when I was twelve, and when I was one and twenty my cousin Bilbo—who was much older than I, and so I called him uncle—took me in to be his heir.”

“Much more preferable to those Sackville-Bagginses.” Bilbo muttered under his breath and winced at the glares he received. Frodo, however, looked amused.

“I believe those were your exact words in their entirety.” He said. “Anyway, Bilbo lived for a good long time—longer than any Hobbit usually did. He disappeared on his eleventy-first birthday and so the Ring came to be in my possession. In my timeline, you see, Bilbo kept it for sixty years, unknowing of its true nature.”

“So how did it come to be in your possession?” Gandalf asked, looking keenly at the two Hobbits. “One does not simply give the Ring of power away.”

“That’s exactly what Bilbo did.” Frodo said, chin lifted high as another wave of whispers passed through the crowd. “When I returned to Bag End it was lying there on the floor. It was then, Gandalf, that you explained its history and what must be done. I agreed to take it to Rivendell, where its fate should be decided. Three other Hobbits joined me as well as a Ranger. It was at Rivendell I volunteered to take it to Mordor to destroy it.”

“You volunteered.” Thranduil was looking at Frodo with a searching eye, sizing him up no doubt. Frodo looked fearlessly back.

“Yes, as did my Hobbit companions.” Frodo said. “There was a Fellowship; representatives from all the races. We had the Ranger who guided me and my friends to Rivendell and kept us safe from the Black Riders. Gimli, son of Glóin,” And here Frodo inclined his head towards the red-headed Dwarf, who looked quite startled; staring wide-eyed at Frodo. “The son of the Steward of Gondor—not your son, I believe my lord—and Legolas of the Woodland Realm.” And here Frodo looked warmly at the Elf, who seemed as taken aback as Glóin.

“The last to join us on our quest was Gandalf.” He said. “I shan’t bore you with the details of our trip, since it shall never come to pass. However the Fellowship eventually broke and my friend Sam and I went to Mordor alone.”

“You—two Hobbits went to Mordor _alone_.” Thorin said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

Frodo lifted his chin. “The creature Gollum guided us.” He said. “He tried to kill us many a time, and if it weren’t for Sam I’d’ve surely died, for the Ring was starting to poison my mind at that point. In the end, the Ring was destroyed.”

“And did you destroy it?” Saruman asked, his deep voice incredulous.

Frodo winced. “I was overcome finally.” He whispered, looking at the sky. “I could not. It had too great a hold on me.”

“Yet you said it had been destroyed.” Gandalf said. Frodo nodded once.

“I was not the only creature a slave to its will.” Frodo said. He held up his hand, the one with the mutilated finger and grinned sardonically. “Gollum was not afraid to take it by force, and in his excitement he fell into the Fires of Mount Doom.”

“Understand,” Bilbo said hurriedly. “That he was in Mount Doom, about to destroy the Ring, with Sauron at nearly full power just a few miles away. Do not fault him for falling to it.”

“Bilbo!” Frodo hissed, ducking his head.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Gandalf said. “The mere fact that you got it to Mount Doom is incredible.”

“Do we believe this?” Thranduil asked. “This . . . _time travel?_ ”

“I do,” Lady Galadriel murmured. “I see it in his mind, I see it in his heart, I see it in his soul. Frodo Baggins is not from this time, and he . . . speaks the truth.”

This silenced many grumbling voices, and Frodo was once more allowed to continue. “That leads to the timeline that is most important to you; this one we are living in.” He said. “My tale is done with and has been for decades that have yet come to pass. When I found myself here, the first thing I did was set Bilbo’s affairs in order so that he had no excuse to come back.”

“I’m sure I could have thought of something.” Bilbo said.

“I’m sure.” Frodo agreed easily. “You were still on your quest. I believe, if my timeline is correct, you were either just crossing the Misty Mountains or had done so and were near Mirkwood. I followed as quickly as I could and enlisted the help of several allies I had called upon in my own time. I borrowed some ponies from a village further south of Escargoth and so journeyed up to the ruins of Dale, where I found Bilbo and told him the truth of his Ring.”

“And so you convinced Bilbo to take the Ring to Mordor.” The King of Rohan said.

A silence fell and all eyes focused on Bilbo, who cleared his throat, feeling quite nervous. “As I had said in the beginning of my tale,” He began, “I was confronted with a dark haired Hobbit a long ways away from the Shire. When we got to talking he explained the nature of my ring—a ring I had thought was merely a trinket to aide in my use as a burglar. Much like the last time I signed up for a quest, I made the decision in a moment—after all, much more was riding on this quest than the last, for it was not a home with a dragon—it was all of Middle Earth.

“Frodo and I journeyed to Mordor,” Bilbo said, “and threw the Ring into Mount Doom. The reason the Mountain erupted was because of that. Frodo and I had just gotten back when Gandalf and the Company of Dwarves appeared upon my doorstep.” He cleared his throat slightly. “I believe we have answered your questions.”

And with that, Bilbo and Frodo stepped back and watched the Council descend into chaos.

*

It was some time later, and indeed many mugs of ale and goblets of wine had passed incredulous lips, that their story was largely accepted.

It was quite fantastical, Bilbo did have to admit, but it was the truth. Many could not believe that thousands of years of waiting, of fearing, of darkness were over because of two simple Hobbits.

There was a party, with much feasting and merriment as all the races celebrated an adverted war. Frodo and Bilbo told and re-told their stories many times. The Dwarves hardly let Bilbo out of their sight, all awed and terrified that he had gone to Mordor. Thorin had apologized again, and he was even approached by the Kings of Gondor and Rohan, relief in their eyes and acknowledgement on their tongues.

True to his word, Bilbo did not let Frodo out of his sight and kept the other Hobbit from most of the prodding. Sometime in the evening the two Hobbits were pulled aside by the Council and explained, in detail, just what had happened. Frodo refused to tell his tale, saying that it was not the night and that as far as he knew, he wasn’t going anywhere—they could hear it at a more appropriate time.

Eventually the two Hobbits slipped away and wandered through the halls of Rivendell.

“It seems quite anticlimactic.” Bilbo mused. “Though I suppose this was the best option anyone could have hoped for; no one died.”

“Well, Sauron did.” Frodo said. “But I don’t suppose we care too much about that.”

“No.” Bilbo agreed. “Not very much, no.”

They sat in silence for a time, looking up at the stars that were just beginning to appear in the musty dusk.

“You know,” Frodo said. “I believe this life, should I live for a bit longer, will be a bit more enjoyable than the last.”

“I hope so.” Bilbo said and looked at Frodo. “Thank you,” He said quietly. “You have saved us all.”

And Frodo smiled, bright and free.

*

*

*

*

And that is where our story ends, though I surely could go on. I could speak of the many wonderful adventures the two Hobbits went on, of how little Frodo’s parents were saved by a strange Hobbit who bore the same eyes as their small child. I could speak of the numerous Dwarves that appeared on the doorstep of Bag End, and the merriment that often followed. I could write about how, a year later, that same group of Men and Elves and Dwarves gathered to listen to Frodo’s story, and who cried and cheered and expressed their admiration at such a tale of bravery and friendship and loyalty before all agreed that Hobbits were rather remarkable creatures. 

I could write of how the two Hobbits enchanted four younger Hobbits—A Baggins, a Gamgee, a Took and a Brandybuck to be precise—off into a wild adventure to a far off solitary peak, only for the six Hobbits to return, grinning wildly and speaking of Trolls and Orcs and Goblins and Dwarves and mountains of gold. I could describe how Frodo sought out Boromir and how he gave strength to the two young brothers of Gondor, meeting them up with a quiet, dark-haired Ranger with a sadness in his eyes and how the three of them lent each other strength and friendship. I could write about a red-head Dwarf and a fair-haired Elf and the wild adventure they took down to the South (with nudging from two small, bare-footed creatures) with Oliphants and wild Men and destruction, and how they returned, a tentative friendship blooming. I could describe the night when Frodo took aside Bilbo after a journey to the Blue Mountains and how he admitted it was nice to return home to the Shire.

I could speak of how, older now with wrinkles around their eyes and sagging jowls, the two Hobbits sold Bag End to a young Frodo and went to Rivendell. I could speak of the Dwarves and Elves and Men and four younger Hobbits who stood around Frodo as he lay dying a natural death of age, ready for peace. I could speak of how, on his last breath, there appeared a golden light from which eight figures appeared; an odd grouping of two men, three Hobbits, a Wizard in White, an Elf and a Dwarf, and how their counterparts stared from around the bed with shock. I could describe the way Bilbo feasted his eyes on the group he had heard so much about, of how the Dwarves were silent, of how the Elves looked in awe, the Hobbits in wonder, how a wizard in grey smiled happily. And I could speak of how Frodo smiled and rose to join them, young and whole again looking timeless as he stepped into the light and was never seen on Middle Earth again. I could write of how Bilbo wrote a book, lived for a good long while, and finally passed into death with a quite contentment surrounded by his many, many friends.

But I shan’t, for that would take a long while, and sometimes lives are lived beyond adventures, and they are lived good and long and full of wondrous hope.

  
_“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”_  
—J.R.R. Tolkien

**Author's Note:**

> If you prefer reading on Docs, here's a link to the Google Docs version of PTLH: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VL5nLs4JF6pq3qD2LcH69aNPk5-KyZu9-wIy8pBN9SU/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> I would still like to revisit this story at some point, but it might be something separate from PTLH. I've got a lot of ideas for it, but I don't have the time to spend right now. What are your thoughts?


End file.
